The Contract

Helena's POV

I should've known when he smirked over breakfast, shirtless and cocky, eggs forgotten in the pan, that Toto Wolff had a plan.

By sunset, he looked positively feral with it.

"Dinner," he said, standing behind me in our suite, arms snaking around my waist as I stood at the mirror fixing my hair. "But under one condition."

His voice was pure silk and sin.

I tilted my head just enough to catch his eyes in the reflection. "Mm? Let me guess—you'll fuck me until I can't walk again?"

Toto barked a low laugh against my neck. "That's already on the itinerary," he said, kissing the spot beneath my ear. "But no. I have something else in mind."

He reached into his pocket and held it up.

A remote. Sleek. Sinister.

I blinked at it. "Tell me that's for the room's blinds."

"It's for something much more fun."

Oh.

Oh.

My heart hammered.

"I want you to wear it to dinner," he murmured, trailing kisses down my neck. "Under your thong."

"Problem," I said innocently, spinning in his arms. "I'm not wearing a thong tonight."

His pupils blew wide. "You little—"

"Problem solved," I added sweetly.

He stared at me for a beat, then bit his lower lip. "You're going to kill me."

I winked. "Not before I break you."

He didn't even fight the grin. "Go lie on the bed. I'll help you put it in."

And that's how I found myself twenty minutes later, teetering in my heels through the hotel's restaurant in a slinky black dress—his favorite—with something buzzing against parts of me that shouldn't be active in public.

We were seated in a quiet corner by the window. Candlelight flickered over his face, and his phone sat casually in his palm, thumb resting right on the edge of chaos.

I barely got through the breadsticks before the first pulse hit me.

"Jesus," I gasped, clenching my thighs together under the table.

Toto didn't even flinch. "Too much?"

I shot him a look.

He raised the intensity.

I gasped again, biting the inside of my cheek as the waiter appeared. I somehow ordered pasta without collapsing.

He leaned forward, eyes dark. "You look so calm, baby," he murmured, sotto voce. "But I can feel how tense you are."

"Touch me again and I'll scream," I hissed.

"That's the point."

Midway through the wine, he slid his foot under the table, pressing against my calf. "Spread."

I did. Because of course I did.

"Good girl."

My head rolled back. "You're evil."

"I'm winning," he said smugly, adjusting the dial. I jerked. He grinned.

I tried to retaliate, ran my fingers along the inside of his thigh under the table—but the man was a fortress. No reaction. Just his hand inching across the table until his thumb traced lazy circles on my wrist.

"Toto," I whispered, leaning in close, "if you don't stop that I'm going to crawl over this table and ride you right now."

He clicked the dial up again.

I bit down a moan so hard my lip bruised.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against my ear. "When we get upstairs, I'm going to make you beg to come. And I won't let you. Not until you say please."

"Fuck you."

He grinned. "Eventually."

By the time dessert arrived, I was practically vibrating out of my seat. The waiter offered tiramisu. I could barely hold the spoon. Toto fed me a bite, deliberately slow, eyes locked on my mouth.

"I'm dripping," I muttered.

"I know," he said smugly.

We barely made it to the elevator.

The moment the doors closed, he pinned me to the wall, kissing me like he needed it to live. His hand slipped beneath my dress, removing the toy with a skilled flick of his fingers.

He held it up. "Dinner's over."

We stumbled into the suite.

Clothes came off in seconds.

And what happened after that? Let's just say I never doubted his remote-control skills again.