Page 124 of Lennox Lane

“You’re already doing that, Mama.”

“Robot.”

“Good girl.”

She bit her lip, letting his hand flex once against her back. Every eye in the room could’ve been on them, and Lane would still have felt the most seen by the man beside her. Their booth sat near the stage, curved and upholstered in deep green velvet. Of course. Lennox guided her in first, then slid in beside her. Lane considered sitting properly for about one second before choosing honesty instead.

She settled into his lap; his breath caught against her shoulder.

She made herself comfortable like she belonged there. One arm draped loosely around his neck. Her legs angled across the booth. Satin straps and stockings catching the light. His hands found her immediately. Waist. Hip. Thigh. Back. Not frantic. Not careless. Just everywhere enough to make it clear he had no intention of pretending restraint came naturally to him tonight.

“You’re needy,” she murmured.

“For you? Always.”

His mouth brushed her ear.

Lane shivered.

The stage lights dimmed, but she barely noticed because Lennox had started whispering to her. Low, wicked promises about finishing what he’d started. About how good she looked in what he’d chosen. About how proud he was of her for trusting him. About how hard it was not to take her back to the suite before the show even began and stroke her until she cried out for him.

His words slipped beneath the lingerie, beneath the silk, beneath the last fragile layer of composure she had left.

Lane shifted on his lap.

His hands tightened.

“Careful,” he whispered.

She smiled. “Or what?”

His teeth grazed the shell of her ear, light enough to be a promise, not a bite. “Or I’ll make patience part of your punishment.”

Her body went hot all over.

“You’re mean,” she whispered.

“I’m yours.”

The music shifted.

Conversation quieted.

A spotlight opened over the stage like a flower blooming in gold.

Lane turned toward it, breathing unevenly. Her body was alive while Lennox’s hands held her like she was both treasure and trouble.

Then the host stepped into the light.

“Welcome to Provocateur,” they purred into the mic. “Tonight, we begin with The Black Dahlia.”

Lane’s pulse jumped.

Lennox’s mouth curved against her ear.

“Watch closely, Lavender.”

And then the show began.