Cheryl
“Hi, Chris,” I said, slipping into the backseat. He had come to pick me up for my dinner with Mr. Han.
“Cheryl,” he acknowledged curtly and started driving.
I shook my head.
Weird man.
“Did you miss me?” I teased, watching for a reaction.
“Absolutely not. I finally had some peace and quiet, thanks to you,” he deadpanned.
I kicked his seat.
Asshole.
“Mr. Han is not going to be pleased with your outfit, ma’am,” he added, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.
I smirked.
Exactly what I wanted.
The dress was a long black lace number, soft and delicate, with rich velvet covering my breasts. But the rest? Completely sheer. Anyone looking could make out the shape of my panties, the curve of my hips—every teasing hint of what lay beneath.
When we arrived at the restaurant
