Chapter 4: Red Lace and Bad Ideas

AMELIA

Victor’s name lit up my phone at 11:17 p.m. Singapore time, which meant it was barely noon here. 

I was curled on the chaise in my bedroom, hair still damp from the pool breeze, scrolling mindlessly through I*******m when the FaceTime chime made me flinch.

I almost let it ring out.

Then Ethan’s voice from earlier slithered back into my head: Is my father that good too? Does he make you shake like that?

I hit accept before I could talk myself out of it.

Victor’s face filled the screen, tanned, handsome in that silver-fox way, hotel suite behind him all cream linen and orchids.

“God, baby, there you are,” he breathed, like he hadn’t seen me in years instead of forty-eight hours. “I miss you so much it hurts.”

I forced a soft laugh. “Miss you too.”

He leaned closer to the camera, voice dropping. “What are you wearing?”

I glanced down at the oversized T-shirt I’d thrown on after the pool. Hardly sexy.

“Give me two seconds,” I said, and ended the call.

I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe spite. Maybe the memory of Ethan’s smirk when he said I couldn’t come for my own husband. Maybe I just wanted to prove something, to Victor, to Ethan, to myself.

I dug through the back of my drawer until I found the set Victor had sent from Paris last Valentine’s: red lace, completely sheer, tiny satin bows between the cups and along the hips of the thong. I hated the color. Made me feel like a Christmas ornament. But Victor loved it, called it his lucky lingerie.

Tonight it felt like armor.

I left the bedroom door cracked exactly three inches, the same gap I’d stood behind yesterday. Then I turned the lights low, just the sconces above the bed glowing warm gold, and propped the phone against a stack of pillows.

When I called back, Victor answered on the first ring.

“Jesus Christ, Amelia,” he groaned the second he saw me.

I gave him the slow smile I used to give photographers. “Thought you might like a proper goodnight.”

He was already in bed, shirtless, sheets low on his hips. “Touch yourself for me, baby. I need to see you.”

I lay back against the mountain of pillows, letting the lace slip off one shoulder. My nipples were already hard, traitorously eager. I traced a finger along the edge of the bra cup, teasing, watching Victor’s eyes darken.

“Like this?” I whispered.

“More,” he rasped.

I slid the bra down, freeing both breasts, and cupped them, thumbs brushing over the peaks. The lace scraped deliciously. I closed my eyes, arched a little, and let out the softest moan.

In my head it wasn’t Victor’s voice urging me on.

I pictured Ethan leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with that half-lidded stare. Imagined him stepping inside, shutting the door with a click, telling me exactly how pathetic I looked trying to please a man who couldn’t even find my clit with a map.

The fantasy made me wetter than Victor’s heavy breathing ever could.

I slipped one hand lower, over the flat plane of my stomach, beneath the red lace thong. My fingers slid easily through slick heat. I gasped, real this time.

“Fuck, baby, spread your legs, let me see,” Victor begged.

I did, knees falling open, angling the phone so he had the perfect view. Two fingers circled my clit, slow at first, then faster. My hips rolled. I pinched my nipple hard, bit my lip, and let the sounds spill out unchecked.

I wanted Ethan to hear every single one.

I wanted him to know I could be loud. That I could be filthy. That I didn’t need him standing there to come harder than I had in years.

“That’s it, Amelia, come for me,”

I was close, so close, thighs trembling, breath hitching. I opened my eyes just enough to glance at the door.

Still empty.

Disappointment stabbed sharp and unexpected.

I shut my eyes again and chased the edge anyway, rubbing tighter circles, imagining Ethan’s hand replacing mine, his low voice in my ear telling me I was his good little whore, that Daddy would never know how wet his son made me.

I came with a sharp cry, back bowing off the bed, waves crashing so hard I saw stars.

Victor groaned my name like he’d won something.

I lay there panting, skin flushed, staring at the ceiling while he finished himself off in a hotel bed half a world away. When he was done he blew me a kiss, told me he loved me, and promised to call tomorrow.

I ended the call, rolled onto my stomach, and pressed my face into the pillow to muffle the laugh that felt more like a sob.

The door was still open three inches.

No shadow. No footsteps. Nothing.

I felt ridiculous. Desperate. Like a teenager trying to get the bad boy’s attention and failing spectacularly.

I dragged myself to the shower, let the scalding water beat down until my skin was pink, then wrapped myself in a towel and padded back into the bedroom.

Knock knock knock.

I froze.

The clock on the nightstand read 12:03 a.m.

I tightened the towel and opened the door.

Ethan stood there in low-slung black sweatpants, no shirt, hair damp like he’d just come from the pool again. Moonlight carved shadows across his chest and abs, and his eyes, God, those eyes looked straight through the terrycloth like it didn’t exist.

“What are you doing here so late?” My voice came out steadier than I felt.

He didn’t answer right away. Just let his gaze drift down to my bare legs, then back up, slow and deliberate.

Finally he smiled, small, lethal.

“How will Daddy react when he finds out his beloved wife just came in front of him while imagining his son?”

The words slammed into me like ice water.

I didn’t think. My hand moved before my brain caught up, palm cracking across his cheek with a sound that echoed down the hallway.

His head barely moved, but the surprise in his eyes lasted half a second before it melted into something darker. Hotter.

He touched the red mark blooming on his skin, then took one step forward, crowding me back into the room until the door clicked shut behind him.

“I won’t do the same to you,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Not on the cheek.”

His thumb brushed my bottom lip, slow, possessive. My breath stuttered.

“Maybe somewhere else.”

Then he was gone, the door closing softly, leaving me clutching my towel and shaking so hard I had to sit on the edge of the bed.

I touched my mouth where his thumb had been.

Twenty-eight days left.

And I was already terrified of how much I wanted tomorrow to come.