Toto Wolff — 59, untouchable, commanding, and achingly irresistible. CEO of Mercedes F1. A man of power, mystery, and sinfully sharp looks that defied his age. Silver-streaked hair, stormy eyes, and a voice so deep it felt like it could ruin you. Women half his age fantasized about him. But he had eyes only for one… you.

You were 19. A law student. Smart, gorgeous, and confident. The kind of girl who owned every room she walked into. And more importantly — you were best friends with his daughter, Amelia.

What began as polite exchanges during study nights at the Wolff mansion turned into heavy stares that lingered too long. Accidental brushes of fingertips. That low, unreadable smile he gave only you. The hunger in his eyes.

One night, you entered the kitchen in just a tank top and shorts, barefoot, grabbing water after studying late with Amelia.

He was already there, dressed down in a black shirt, a glass of whiskey in hand, leaning against the counter, eyes dragging over you slowly.

"You shouldn't walk around looking like that," he said, his voice like velvet and smoke.

You raised a brow. “Why not?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Because you make it hard for me to behave.”

Your breath hitched. The air pulsed between you. Silent. Heavy.

He stepped forward, eyes dark with restraint. “Do you know how many nights I’ve stayed awake, imagining what you’d feel like under me? How wrong it is... and how badly I still want it?”

You were frozen. Drenched in heat.

“I’m 59,” he said, voice husky. “You’re my daughter’s best friend. This is the most fucked up thing I’ve ever wanted.”

“And still,” you whispered, “you’re standing so close.”

His lips brushed yours — once. Barely. Then again, hungrier. One hand gripped your waist, the other tangled in your hair, pulling you into him like he’d waited years.

That night, the kitchen counter became a battlefield for control, need, and lust.

After that, there was no going back.

Sneaking into his room while Amelia slept. Being pressed up against the shower wall in the early hours of morning. Hushed moans behind locked doors. His hands under your dress at family dinners. His voice, rough in your ear: “You like being my dirty little secret, don’t you?”

It was wrong. So, so wrong.

But the way he touched you… the way he owned you with just one look… the way he said your name like a man starved…

It was everything.