Me: how late
Minnie: Pretty late
Me: you’re coming to the party right
Minnie: Sorry I don’t think I can. I’ll make it up to you when you get back though
I try not to let my expression flicker – there’s a camera walking with me – but my eyes widen just a fraction.
Me: make it up to me how specifically
Minnie: That’ll ruin the surprise! Don’t rush though. Enjoy the party and I’ll be up when you get back. Be as late as you want
I head straight home after showing face and downing one glass of Nyetimber. She can’t tease me like that and think I’ll return pissed and clumsy at 4am. Does she know me at all? The glint in her eye when she called my drive a ‘masterclass’ in her post-race interview was all the encouragement I needed.
When I open my front door and switch the lights on, there’s a trail of her clothes to my bedroom. I lick my lips and follow them. Abba’s playing on loud and though it doesn’t set the tone I was imagining the whole drive back, I’m into it. I am, after all, a man after midnight.
The bedroom door’s jammed. I can make out a slither of bright light but not much else. I try again more forcefully and she squeaks,‘Why are you back so soon?!’
‘What are you doing?’
The door shuts with a thud. Damn she’s strong. ‘Why aren’t you out celebrating?’
‘It’s rude to leave your house guests to fend for themselves, Roberts, and by the looks of this thong on the floor, I made the right decision.’
She tuts. ‘You should go for more than one at your own victory party.’
‘I had a better option.’
‘Well your better option isn’t ready yet. Leave and come back in twenty.’
‘I can’t leave – it’s my flat.’ I sound beggy but I’m holding her underwear. I’m ready to go right now.
‘Chill in the game den you were so excited to show me earlier.’
I drag my feet away muttering about congratulations and rudeness. Like you can playFIFAfor twenty minutes.
After an eternity flipping through Netflix and landing on nothing, her sweet voice drifts from my bedroom, ‘You’re summoned, Mr Driver of the Day.’
I’m instantly hard.
I take a deep breath and force myself to think about Arsenal’s win yesterday before getting to my feet. She’s lying on my bed, propped up on her forearms, dressed in illegal lingerie. Black, lacy, suspenders dripping down her thighs, easy access to key areas. The way it hugs her perfectly reeks of money. I feel a foreign tug – I want to be the one who bought it for her.
‘I’ve been saving this for a special occasion,’ she says, stroking the fabric across her torso, voice pure sex.
Abba’s gone and the main light’s been swapped for candles. Dozens of them. Something in my chest clenches. No one’s ever done a gesture like this for me. I want to thank her the best way I know how: leaving her so wrung out, so weak-kneed, so swollen that she can’t move tomorrow.
I don’t know where to start. It’s like the most incredible feast’s been set before me. Her little feet flex, and my starting point’s obvious. I drop to my knees and kiss the soft underside of her ankle, working my hands over her feet which must be sore after running around the paddock all day. I force myself not to look between her thighs where the lingerie has kindly left a gap, but fucking hell it’s tempting.
Her body’s becoming as familiar to me as my race car. I know she jerks when I lick the back of her knee, she purrs when I kiss the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, she squirms when I burrow my hands beneath her and squeeze her cheeks.
‘I’ve missed you,’ I whisper when we’re side by side.
She trails a thumb over my cheek. ‘You were so impressive today. I meant what I said in the interview.’
‘I know you did.’
‘I’m so proud of you.’
