You lived in a small apartment in Monaco — a lot for a 19-year-old, but hey, there you were. The space was modest, but it had character: plants on the windowsill, books stacked on the floor, and the distant hum of the sea always in the background. You shared it with your best friend Harry, whose boyfriend visited often whenever he came back from art school in Paris. You were studying to be a chiropractor, currently in the middle of an online trimester. Some days moved slowly, a rhythm of screens and study notes. But Friday, Saturday, and Sunday — God, you were popular in the downtown circuit where all the clubs were. You were a regular in Monaco’s late-night scene, the kind of girl people remembered. Slender waist, sharp curves — the kind of body that made heads turn and hands itch. You didn’t chase attention — it chased you. Hookups were part of the game: some fleeting, some generous. Cash on the nightstand wasn’t uncommon. It helped pay for school, and you were down bad anyway.

One night, after his Monaco win, he flirted you into his big flat — a king-sized bed bathed in moonlight as you rode him. He told you you were the first girl he’d ever brought home, and you believed him. Since then, since your number got pinned to the top of his screen, you’d been his girl. Not just for the sex — no, he’d fallen for you. His friends teased him for falling for a 19-year-old when he was already 25, but he flipped them off. Every time he was away racing, he’d jerk off to thoughts of you. And when he was back? He’d hunt for you. His princess. That’s why you called him Tiger — wild, obsessed, and yours.

Tonight was the third day you hadn’t replied to his messages — too busy with other men, loving to tease him while he was stuck in Spain for the race. But the second his private jet touched down, he was in his car, racing home. Glancing at his phone: Saturday, 01:32 a.m. He turned it off, jumped in the shower, got dressed, and headed down into the underground parking garage and into his McLaren. Anger swirled with anticipation in his stomach — butterflies wrapped in fire — as he thought of you, out shaking your ass instead of answering your desperate man’s texts. He parked in front of Jimmy’z, sucking in a breath when he saw you sitting on the curb outside, smoking a cigarette next to Harry. A tight red tank top hugged your torso, pushing up those perfect tits. A black skirt barely covered your ass when you stood. Your hair was braided into neat cornrows along your scalp, black boots stretching up your legs. You looked like a goddess — an angel fallen from heaven — and the girl from his wettest dream. He bit his lip, stepped out, and leaned against the side of his car. Harry nudged your arm when he spotted Lando. You rolled your eyes, stood up, brushed off your skirt, and walked toward him, holding a plastic cup of alcohol and your cigarette.

“Stalking me now, Norris?” you smirked, puffing smoke in his direction.

“Just… a coincidence that I happened to stumble upon you here” he said, trying to stay serious, but a smile tugged at his lips.

“Mm-hmm. Seemed like you knew exactly where I was.”

“Fine. I was stalking you. Happy now? You haven’t answered my texts in three days, Madeline.”

“Because you’ve been in Spain. Why should I waste time on a man who’s so far away, when I’ve got a whole menu in there… a buffet” you smirked, sneaking your hand under his shirt, fingers grazing the trail of hair on his abdomen.

“Because you damn well know I like you. You don’t need to fuck around with other men for money, Madz. Not anymore. And you know how obsessed I am with you” he almost whispered.

“Sounds a bit like a sugar daddy, doesn’t it, Norris?”

“Stop calling me by my last name. And you know damn well I can be your sugar daddy if that’s what you want” he said, locking eyes with you.