Page 106 of Release Me
Heiress leaves banker husband for his billionaire best friend.
New York publishing royalty leaves sham marriage for the best man.
De Courcy dynasty torn apart.
The headlines were shocking, but in a good way. The press spun my life as a second chance love story. They ate up the photographs of me and Rian together—his hand on my back, his lips pressed to my temple, the sensual glances we exchanged on his family’s yacht in the South of France a few weeks ago. It looked like we were having a full-blownconversation with our eyes—an explicit one at that.Hellomagazine called itA real-life fairytale.
For once, the fairytale is mine.
The divorce is almost final; it’s probably only a matter of days now. And I can’t wait to celebrate with my beautiful boyfriend—the man who has never let me down. He’s been a tower of strength; his support and love are unwavering.
He currently has one hand on the wheel of his Porsche, and the other resting on my bare thigh, inching teasingly higher with every passing minute.
‘Where are you taking me?’ I ask, biting down on my lip to keep from sighing as his thumb makes slow, delicious circles over my bare skin. He told me to wear something sexy, so I put on a black silk dress, cut low at the front, and shorter than decency allows. The fabric clings to my hips. The hem hangs mid-thigh. Every minute movement threatens to bare me completely. I can barely walk in my black silk stilettos, but they’re worth it for the way they elongate my legs.
‘You’ll see.’ The corner of his mouth curves as he glances at me. That same familiar jolt of electricity courses between us. My cheeks flush, heat pooling low in my belly.
‘I thought you and I didn’t have any secrets,’ I murmur, leaning into him, pressing my lips to the edge of his jaw, inhaling his heady masculine scent deep into my lungs.
‘It’s not a secret,’ he says, snapping his eyes back to the road half a second before the Porsche purrs round another bend. ‘It’s a promise. One I made you months ago.’
I’m none the wiser as the city looms on the horizon. But by the time he turns down a familiar street, I have it.
The mirrored facade glitters in the glow of the headlights; The Luxor Lounge.
His strip club—I mean “Gentlemen’s bar”.
The one he promised he’d bring me back to.
The one where he swore I’d get on stage at—but only for him. Like all the Beckett boys, my man is a tad possessive.
‘Rian…’ My voice hitches.
He kills the engine, twists towards me, and captures my mouth in a kiss so hot it steals the air from my chest. When he pulls back, his eyes are molten lava.
‘It’s closed tonight,’ he murmurs. ‘You have a date with a pole, and not just the one in my trousers.’ He motions to the bulge tenting his crotch.
A pulse of heat races between my thighs. ‘That sounds promising.’
I’ve never pole danced before. Never tried. But the thought of getting up on that stage, stripping for him, commanding his undivided attention has my pussy pulsing in my lace panties.
‘Let’s go.’ He opens the driver door and rounds the car to open mine, offering a hand to help me out. I deliberately arch forward as I exit the vehicle, offering him a camera worthy shot of my cleavage. The dress doesn’t allow for a bra, and judging by the hiss from his lips, he just noticed. This is going to be so much fun.
Butterflies swoop through my stomach as he guides me in through mirrored double doors. The Luxor Lounge is scrawled in italic font. There’s no security staff. No receptionist. No bar staff. It’s just us.
He flicks on the sound system first, then the spotlights, illuminating the glossy black marble flooring and chrome poles. A soft, sultry beat infiltrates the air, and instinctively, I’m already swaying to it.
Rian’s hand curves around my hip as we move further inside. Possessive. Steady. Claiming, even though there’s no one here but us.
‘Drink?’ he asks, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.
‘Please.’ I wet my lips. My pulse is hammering, the gleam of the pole sending heat surging between my thighs.
‘Champagne?’ he asks, his eyes blazing over my body.
I nod, unable to speak. We haven’t even started and I’m already ridiculously turned on.
He stalks towards the bar and opens a bottle of Beckett’s Black Label. I follow him, grabbing two flutes from the overhead shelving.
