The air conditioning hummed, but it didn't dissipate the heat in the penthouse suite overlooking Monaco. It was late, the city lights were just shimmering abstraction below, and the only light inside the room came from the faint glow of the city filtering through the sheer curtains.

Jenson had finally returned from the sponsors’ dinner, shedding his suit jacket the moment he walked through the door. He tossed it onto a chair, ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, and stopped when he saw you. You weren’t doing anything overtly seductive, just standing there, perhaps leaning against the large central table, but the stillness was loaded.

He loosened his tie, his movements slow and deliberate, his blue eyes never leaving yours. The polite, charming F1 driver persona he wore for the press was gone, replaced by a deep, hungry look you knew well. He walked towards you, stopping a few feet away, close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off his body, but not touching.

“I’ve had enough forced conversation and dry canapés to last a lifetime,” he said, his voice low and gravelly from a long night. He reached out and gently took your hand, bringing it to his lips, but instead of kissing your knuckles, he simply inhaled. "But I think the real course is finally being served."

You knew exactly where he was going. This was a game you had both choreographed before, a high-stakes moment of anticipation that felt almost like the last, tense lap of a race.

You held his gaze, a slow, confident smile spreading across your face. “Know you got the appetite,” you murmured, quoting the familiar track. You slowly withdrew your hand, deliberately turning your back to him as you drifted toward the table.

He followed your movement, his eyes darkening. “Insatiable, actually. It’s been a long day, and frankly, I’ve been looking forward to this all night. So, come on over, let me cater to you, or are you planning on making me wait?”

You ran your finger lightly over the polished wood of the table, turning your head to glance over your shoulder at him. The metaphor was becoming reality; the tension was almost palpable. You moved your hips slightly, a silent invitation, and saw him take a sharp, involuntary breath.

“Patience, Champ,” you whispered. “The best meals take time to prepare.” You finally turned to face him, leaning back against the cool table edge, your arms outstretched along the surface. You adopted a challenging, inviting pose.

“I’m the five-star feast, Jenson,” you breathed, your voice barely audible. “And tonight, I’m the one setting the speed limits. Are you ready for the main course? Because I’m spread all on the table, I’m open for consumption.”

He took one last, decisive step, his body pressing in close, trapping you gently against the table edge. He was breathing heavily, his hands resting on either side of your head, leaning down until his lips were inches from your ear.

“Bon appétit, baby,” he growled, the words a promise. “I’m starving.”