Page 122 of Lennox Lane

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t know that I need you to relieve me.”

His smile was pure sin. “Be a good girl, and I’ll finish what I started.”

Lane hated the pout that came to her mouth—hated it even more when Lennox’s eyes dropped to it and softened with satisfaction.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” she muttered.

“I’m enjoying you.”

Her body was still humming, every nerve awake and offended by delayed gratification. Beneath the frustration, trust bloomed. He was taking her to the edge, but not over it without asking. Teasing, yes. Testing, yes. Driving her absolutely out of her mind, also yes. But his control didn’t feel like erasure; it felt like an invitation to let go because somebody capable was watching the ground.

Lane nodded once.

His expression changed, heated and proud. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” she said, voice softer than she planned. “I’ll be good.”

Lennox kissed her then.

Slow.

Deep.

Possessive in the way that made her toes curl against the carpet, but gentle enough that her heart swooned. When he pulled back, he wrapped an emerald-green robe around her shoulders, the silk cool against her overheated skin.

The robe was almost cruel.

Luxurious. Soft. Deep green. It tied at her waist but left enough suggestion beneath it that Lane knew exactly what kind of entrance he intended for them to make.

Then he changed.

Emerald-green satin sleep pants rode low on his hips, the matching robe hanging open over his bare chest. The sight of all that smooth brown skin, hard muscle, and smug control made Lane’s mouth go dry.

He caught her looking.

“Problem?” he asked.

“Don’t start something you’re not about to finish,” she rebutted.

He stepped close, hand sliding to the back of her neck as he kissed her once more. “Patience.”

“I hate that word.”

“You’ll learn to love it.”

“Robot,” she whined.

“Good girl.”

She shut up immediately. Lennox’s grin said he noticed. The ride to Provocateur felt like punishment, not because of distance. The club wasn’t far from the hotel. But the car seemed too small for the tension sitting between them. Lane sat in the passenger seat, lingerie brushing her skin with every breath, stockings whispering against her thighs whenever she shifted. Lennox drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting possessively on her thigh as his thumb moved in slow, maddening strokes.

Neither of them said much. They didn’t need to. The tension in the air did all the talking. Every red light felt personal. Every glance from him felt like a hand. Every slow lick of his lips made her want to remind him that she was a woman with limits and very little interest in spiritual growth through restraint.

By the time they pulled up to Provocateur, Lane’s body was tingling with excitement. The building itself didn’t announce what lived inside it. That surprised her.

No flashing sign. No obvious decadence. No desperate attempt to look forbidden. Provocateur sat behind a private gate on a tree-lined street. It was tucked into a restored brick building with black-framed windows, low garden lights, and ivy climbing one side like a secret being kept beautifully. A discreet gold emblem marked the door—a keyhole inside a blooming flower.