Driven To Peek

Josh clicks the controller in his lap. Richelle stands, fixes her blouse. The little car wheels beneath her hem and the lens catches everything—her thighs, the black lace stretch of her panties, the way it cups heat. His pulse slams against his ribs. She leaves. Josh drives the toy after her like a hound on scent, tires humming over tile. Kitchen lights buzz. She bends to grab something from a cabinet and the dress rides again. Pink folds peek through the lace. He hits the forward button too hard. The car clips her heel. She whips around. Eyes narrow, then glint. "So that’s the game." She spreads her stance, reaches down, flips the hem higher. "If you want pictures that bad, bring it closer." Josh swallows air, thumb locked on the stick, lens zooming straight up the secret she now offers on purpose. Sweat beads at his hairline. Richelle smiles slow. Wicked. Wet spot darkening the lace.