Older, Hotter, Mine book cover by Blair Lennox

Bonus Chapter: Private Session

Older, Hotter, Mine — Bonus Content
by Blair Lennox

⚠️ This bonus scene takes place eight months after the epilogue of Older, Hotter, Mine. Contains spoilers and extremely explicit sexual content between adult women. 18+ only.

🔥 Private Session

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Older, Hotter, Mine

The second Reed House location was three weeks from opening, and the training floor still smelled like fresh rubber and joint compound.

I’d been here since seven, supervising the final equipment installation — squat racks bolted to platforms, cable stations wired, mirrors hung along the east wall with the kind of meticulous precision that only Lauren would require for a surface nobody was supposed to stare at during deadlifts. The crew had left at five. Lauren had stayed, because Lauren always stayed, because this building was her second child and she was not leaving until every bolt was torqued to specification and every cable was measured to the millimeter.

It was 8 p.m. The Lincoln Park street outside was quiet. The construction lights buzzed overhead, casting the raw space in the harsh white glow of a building that hadn’t earned its atmosphere yet. No warm lighting. No curated aesthetic. Just concrete, rubber, glass, and the bones of something that would be beautiful once Lauren finished refusing to let it be anything less.

The space was ours.

“The mirrors are crooked,” Lauren said, standing in the middle of the empty training floor with her arms crossed and her head tilted two degrees to the left.

“The mirrors are level. I watched them hang them.”

“The southeast corner is a quarter-inch low.”

“Lauren. Nobody is going to notice a quarter-inch deviation in a mirror while they’re doing deadlifts.”

“I’ll notice.”

She was wearing construction-site clothes — dark jeans that sat low on her hips, a fitted black henley with the sleeves pushed past her forearms, work boots that she’d had since the original Reed House build-out and refused to replace because they were “broken in.” Her hair was clipped up loosely, the way she wore it when she was working and not performing, and there was a smear of joint compound on her left forearm that she hadn’t noticed.

I noticed. I noticed everything about Lauren Reed’s forearms — the veins that ran along the inside of her wrists, the tendons that shifted when she gripped something, the definition of muscle that came from twenty-five years of moving weight and had nothing to do with aesthetics and everything to do with function. Eight months of sleeping beside this woman, eight months of those hands on my body, and I still lost seconds of my life watching her open jars.

“Come here,” I said.

She looked at me from across the empty floor. “Why?”

“Because this is the last time this floor will be empty. Tomorrow the equipment goes in the east wing. Thursday it’s stocked. Next week it’s full of members and trainers and Jess yelling about squat depth. This is the only night it’s just ours.”

“Kate, we are not going to —”

“Christen the new gym? No. Obviously not. That would be wildly unprofessional.” I walked toward her across the pristine rubber floor, and the sound of my sneakers on the new surface was soft and slightly tacky. “I’m just asking you to come here.”

She uncrossed her arms. The tell — the lowering of the guard, the physical softening that preceded every time Lauren Reed decided to stop being a CEO and start being a woman who wanted to be touched. I’d learned to read it the way I read camera angles — instinctively, precisely, with years of practice and an audience of one.

I stopped in front of her. Put my hand flat on her chest, over the henley, and felt her heartbeat under my palm. Elevated. Steady. The rhythm of a woman whose body had already made the decision her mouth was still negotiating.

“The floor is new,” she said. Her voice had dropped into the register I thought of as private — the one she used in our bed, in our shower, in the early morning dark when she whispered things she’d never say in daylight.

“It is.”

“No one’s trained on it yet.”

“Not yet.”

“If we do this, every time I walk across this floor for the rest of my career, I’m going to think about —”

“About me on my knees in an empty gym at eight o’clock on a Wednesday?” I leaned up and kissed the corner of her jaw, right at the hinge where the muscle tightened when she was fighting herself. “Yes. That’s the point.”

She made a sound — low, involuntary, the hum that vibrated in her chest when her resistance was structural rather than genuine. I kissed her jaw again. Her neck. The tendon that stood out when she swallowed. The spot below her ear where she always — always — shivered.

She shivered.

“Kate.” My name in her mouth. The way she said it when she was deciding whether to fight or fall.

“Lauren.” Her name in mine. The way I said it when I’d already decided for both of us.

She kissed me.

Hard. Both hands on my face, her mouth confident and certain, the kiss of a woman who had spent eight months learning that wanting me was not a risk but a fact she could live inside. She walked me backward until my shoulders hit the new mirror on the east wall — a quarter-inch low, apparently — and pressed her body against mine with the full-length contact that still, after all these months, made my knees forget they had a job.

I felt her everywhere. The heat of her through the henley. The pressure of her hips against mine. The lean muscle of her thigh sliding between my legs, the denim rough against my inner thigh even through my leggings. She kissed me like she’d been thinking about this since the crew left at five and had been arguing with herself for three hours and the argument was over.

“Someone could see,” she murmured against my mouth. Not a protest. An observation. The reflex of a woman whose fear was a ghost she could name and no longer obeyed.

“The windows aren’t installed on the east side yet. It’s plywood. Nobody can see a thing.”

“You planned this.”

“I noticed the plywood this morning and improvised. There’s a difference.”

She smiled against my lips. Lauren Reed, smiling during intimacy, in a building she was christening with her body and her mouth and her hands. The miracle of it never wore off. Eight months, and every time she smiled while touching me, I felt like I’d won something that shouldn’t have been a contest but had been, for a long time, before she learned to stop competing with her own happiness.

“Take this off,” I said, tugging the hem of her henley. “I want to see you.”

She pulled it over her head in one motion. Black bra underneath — simple, functional, the kind she wore for work because she didn’t perform for anyone who wasn’t me. Her torso in the construction light was all angles and definition — the ridged line of her obliques, the flat plane of her stomach, the lean curve of muscle from her shoulder to her bicep. She was forty-four years old and she looked like a woman who had been taking care of her body since before I was born, not out of vanity but out of respect, the way you maintain something you’ve relied on and intend to keep relying on for decades more.

I ran my hands down her sides. Felt her ribs expand under my palms. Kissed her collarbone — the ridge of bone under thin skin, the taste of salt and soap and a day’s worth of work that she hadn’t tried to wash away.

“Your turn,” she said, and stripped my t-shirt over my head before I could do it myself. No bra — I’d taken it off two hours ago because I’d been moving equipment and couldn’t be bothered with underwire while hauling dumbbells.

Lauren looked at me. The specific look — the one that combined assessment and desire in a ratio that was entirely hers, the trainer’s eye and the lover’s eye operating simultaneously. She cupped my breasts with both hands, her thumbs tracing the undersides, and the touch was so light and so deliberate that I arched into it involuntarily.

“I love your body,” she said. Matter-of-fact. The way she stated things she was certain about — no performance, no flattery, just data. “I love the way you’re built. Strong and soft in the same places.”

“Keep talking like that and we’re not going to make it to the floor.”

“We’re not making it to the floor.” She pressed me harder against the mirror. “We’re doing this here. Against the glass. Where I can watch.”

The words sent heat flooding between my legs — immediate, visceral, the specific response that Lauren’s voice in its private register had been triggering since the first night she’d pinned me against a wall in the old Reed House and taken my breath away.

She unclasped her bra. Dropped it. Her breasts were small and firm, her nipples already tight from the cold air and the want, and I bent my head and took one in my mouth while she exhaled sharply above me and her hand found the back of my head.

I sucked gently. Circled with my tongue. Felt the nipple harden further against my lips and felt Lauren’s hand tighten in my hair — not gripping, not controlling, just holding. The way she held everything now: with care instead of management.

I kissed across her chest. Gave the same attention to the other breast. Drew my tongue in a slow circle that made her hips press into mine and her breath catch in her chest like a mechanism that had jammed.

“Kate.” Rougher now. “I need —”

“Tell me.”

“Your mouth. Lower. Please.”

The please. Eight months, and the word “please” from Lauren Reed still undid me every single time. She’d spent a decade refusing to ask for anything, and now she asked — openly, in that rough private voice — and the asking was the most intimate thing she did.

I dropped to my knees.

The new rubber floor was firm under my skin — slightly tacky, smelling of fresh material and the faint chemical residue of manufacturing. Lauren’s hips were above me, the waistband of her jeans at my eye level, and I unbuttoned them slowly, watching her face as I did.

“Look at us,” I said, glancing at the mirror beside us.

Lauren turned her head. In the reflection: her, standing with her back against the wall, lean and strong and flushed from the chest up, jeans half-open, breathing hard. Me, on my knees in front of her, blonde hair loose around my shoulders, hands on her hips, looking up with an expression that communicated intentions no professional setting was designed to contain.

“Watch,” I told her. “Don’t close your eyes. Watch what I do to you.”

She watched.

I pulled her jeans and underwear down together — past her hips, her thighs, the defined muscles of her quads that I’d traced with my tongue a hundred times and would trace a hundred more. She stepped out of them, one leg at a time, and I tossed them behind me and settled between her thighs.

She was wet before I touched her. I could see it — the arousal glistening on her inner thighs, the swollen folds of her cunt slick and flushed and ready. She’d been like this since I told her to come here. Maybe since I walked through the door at seven this morning in a crop top and construction boots. Maybe since she woke up beside me this morning and I’d pretended to be asleep while her hand drifted between her own legs before her alarm.

I pressed my mouth against her and the taste hit me like a declaration — warm, sharp, unmistakably Lauren. The specific flavor of this woman’s arousal that I knew better than any wine or coffee, that I’d been tasting for eight months and would never, not once, take for granted.

I used my tongue in long, flat strokes — root to tip, the full surface, covering her completely. She liked this first. Liked the thoroughness of it, the patience, the way it mapped every nerve ending before settling into the focused rhythm that would take her over the edge. I’d learned her body the way I learned a camera — through repetition, attention, and the willingness to adjust in real time based on what the subject was telling me.

Her hand found my hair. Rested there. The gentle, trusting weight of a woman who’d learned that being held was not the same as being controlled, and that someone on their knees could be the one with all the power.

I focused. Narrowed. Found her clit with the tip of my tongue and circled — slow, steady, consistent. She liked consistency more than variation. Liked pressure building without interruption. Liked the flat of my tongue in steady, unhurried passes that made her thighs shake before the orgasm even started to gather.

“Kate.” Her voice was rough, thinned to a wire. “Fingers. Please.”

I slid two fingers inside her while my tongue kept its rhythm. She was tight and hot and so wet that my hand was slick to the wrist within seconds. The muscles of her inner walls gripped my fingers as I curled them forward — the specific angle, the specific pressure on the ridged tissue of her G-spot that I’d found in the first month and had been exploiting mercilessly ever since.

Her hips rolled. Not consciously — involuntarily, the body taking what the mind couldn’t ask for, the controlled woman losing the control that had once been her armor and was now just an old coat she forgot to take off.

I watched her in the mirror while I worked. Her face was extraordinary — the composure cracking in real time, the jaw unclenching, the eyes going unfocused and then refocusing on the reflection. She was watching my head between her legs. Watching my hand move. Watching herself come undone against the wall of the building she’d built, and the visual combined with the physical into something that was clearly overwhelming, because her breathing went ragged and her hand pressed the back of my head and she said “right there, don’t stop, right there” in a voice that sounded nothing like the woman who ran board meetings and negotiated leases.

I didn’t stop. I gave her exactly that — tongue steady, fingers curling, pace unchanging — and I watched the orgasm build in her face before I felt it in her body. The tightening of her jaw. The flutter of her eyelids. The moment of suspension where her entire body held, every muscle locked, and then the release — a full-body wave that started at her center and rolled outward through her legs, her stomach, her chest. She came with her hand gripping my hair and her eyes on the mirror and a sound that echoed off the empty walls of the building like a bell struck in a cathedral.

The contractions around my fingers were strong and rhythmic — pulse after pulse, her body clenching and releasing in a pattern I could feel through my entire hand. I stayed with her through every one, my mouth gentling, my fingers slowing but not withdrawing, easing her down the way she’d once taught me to ease a client through the last reps of a set — with attention, with care, with the understanding that the recovery was as important as the effort.

When the trembling stopped, she reached down and touched my face. Her thumb traced my lower lip — wet with her, shining.

“Enough,” she said. “Come up here.”

I stood. Kissed her. Let her taste herself on my tongue, because the sharing of that — the intimacy of it, the refusal to flinch from the reality of what we did to each other — was something she’d stopped being surprised by around month three and had started craving around month five.

“My turn,” she said against my mouth. And before I could respond, she reversed us — my back against the mirror, her body pressing into mine, her mouth on my neck, and then lower, and then lower.

She knelt on the new floor of her second gym. Lauren Reed on her knees — the sequel to the parking lot, the evolution of the legal pad, the physical proof that a woman could build an empire and still want to kneel for someone. The sight of it made me press my head against the glass and lose every thought I’d ever had.

She pulled my leggings down. Not slowly — impatiently, efficiently, the Lauren who abandoned patience when her mouth was this close to where she wanted it. She hooked her fingers into the waistband and dragged everything down my thighs in one motion, and I stepped out of the fabric and stood naked against the mirror in work boots I hadn’t bothered to remove.

“Leave the boots,” she said, looking up at me from the floor with dark eyes. “I like the boots.”

I would have laughed but she didn’t give me time. Her mouth was on me before the sound formed — her tongue parting my folds, finding the swollen ache of my clit, and pressing against it with a focused precision that obliterated every neural pathway not dedicated to the sensation.

I was already soaked. I’d been wet since watching her pull deadlift 315 this morning, since the way she’d braced her core and the bar had bent across her back and the chalk on her hands had left white smears on her thighs. I’d been wet since she’d stood in the empty gym arguing about a quarter-inch mirror deviation with the earnest intensity of a woman who cared about things being right, because caring about things being right was the sexiest quality Lauren Reed possessed, and she possessed many.

Her tongue moved against me — long, deliberate, with the specific knowledge that came from eight months of learning my body and a natural understanding of anatomy that most people could only access through textbooks. She knew exactly where to press. Exactly how fast. Exactly when to change the angle and add the curl of her tongue that made my vision white out at the edges.

“Lauren — fuck — right there —”

She hummed against me. The vibration traveled through my clit, through my pelvis, through every nerve ending I had, and I gripped the back of her head with both hands and pulled her closer because the space between her mouth and my body was intolerable and I intended to eliminate it.

She added her fingers. Three — stretching me, filling me, the fullness making me gasp and bear down against her hand. She curled them inside me while her tongue maintained its rhythm, and the dual sensation — the internal pressure and the external attention — built something in my core that felt structural, like a wave forming beneath the surface, gathering mass before it broke.

“Don’t stop,” I said. “God, don’t stop, I’m so close —”

She didn’t stop. She increased the pressure of her tongue — not the speed, the pressure — and the precision of that adjustment, the knowledge that I needed more force and not more velocity, was so exactly right that the orgasm hit me like a wall.

I came with a cry that ricocheted off the bare concrete and the rubber floor and the plywood windows — a sound I couldn’t have contained if I’d tried, and I didn’t try, because Lauren had spent six weeks teaching me not to be quiet and eight months proving that the teaching had stuck. My hands gripped her hair and my hips drove against her face and my thighs shook so hard that the mirror behind me vibrated, and she held me through all of it — her mouth steady, her fingers moving in slow, deep strokes that drew the orgasm out until I was wrung empty and trembling.

She eased me down. Kissed my inner thigh. Pressed her forehead against my hip and breathed, her shoulders rising and falling, and I realized she was as wrecked as I was — not from physical effort but from the specific, devastating intimacy of making someone she loved come apart against a mirror in an empty building that belonged to both of them.

“I’m not done with you,” I said. My voice was wrecked. I didn’t care.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

I pulled her up. Kissed her — deep, wet, tasting myself on her mouth. Then I turned her around. Pressed her front against the mirror, her palms flat on the glass, and stood behind her.

“Spread your legs,” I said.

She did. I watched her in the reflection — her face against the glass, her breath fogging the mirror, her body arched and open. I pressed against her from behind, my breasts against her shoulder blades, my mouth against the nape of her neck, and reached around her hip to find her again.

She was drenched. The orgasm hadn’t diminished the arousal — it had intensified it. My fingers slid through her folds and found her clit and she made a sound against the glass that fogged a circle the size of my fist.

I worked her from behind. Slow, firm circles on her clit while my other hand gripped her hip. She pressed back against me, her ass against my hips, and the contact was so intimate — standing naked behind her, both of us in nothing but work boots, her palms leaving handprints on the new mirror — that I felt another wave of arousal pulse through me despite having just come hard enough to rattle the wall.

“Inside,” she said. “Kate. Inside. Now.”

I slid two fingers into her from behind. The angle was different from the front — deeper, the curve of my hand pressing against her G-spot from a new direction, and she gasped and pushed back onto my hand with a force that drove my fingers deeper.

I fucked her against the mirror. There’s no other word for it — not making love, not having sex. I fucked her with my hand and my hips and my voice in her ear, telling her how she looked, how she felt, how wet she was, how tight, how the sounds she made were echoing off the bare walls of the building she’d constructed with the same hands that were pressed flat against the glass leaving prints that the cleaning crew would find and wonder about.

“I can feel you clenching around me,” I murmured against her neck. “You’re close. You’re so close I can feel it.”

“Don’t stop — Kate, please —”

“Come for me. Against the mirror. In your building. On your floor. Come.”

She came with her forehead pressed against the glass and her mouth open and a sound that was half my name and half something wordless and primal. Her body clenched around my fingers in hard, rhythmic contractions, and I held her through it with my free arm wrapped around her waist, holding her upright, holding her together, because the orgasm was the kind that took the legs away and required a second body to prevent collapse.

When she finished, she turned in my arms. Pressed her back against the mirror and pulled me against her chest and breathed. Her heart was hammering against my cheek. Her skin was slick with sweat. She smelled like sex and rubber and the cedar soap she’d used this morning, and the combination was so potently Lauren that I wanted to bottle it and carry it with me for the rest of my life.

“Every time I walk across this floor,” she said.

“Every time,” I confirmed.

“The members are going to wonder why I’m smiling.”

“Let them wonder.”

She kissed my forehead. My temple. The bridge of my nose. My mouth — soft, unhurried, the kiss of a woman who was no longer counting the cost of being known and had stopped running the risk assessment on every gesture of tenderness.

“I love you,” she said. Against my lips, where I could feel the shape of the words as well as hear them. “I love you in this building and the other building and the apartment and the car and the shower and every room you’ve ever stood in. I love you on Tuesdays for no reason. I love you without an excuse.”

The callback — to the night I’d told her I wanted her on a Tuesday for no reason — made my throat tighten. She remembered. Of course she remembered. Lauren Reed remembered everything, and the difference between now and then was that she used the remembering to build instead of to hide.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

Home. Our condo in Fulton Market. Our bookshelves with the spines in every color. Our cereal on the top shelf — the marshmallow kind that she pretended to find appalling and ate when she thought I was asleep. Our photographs on the wall, including the one she’d hung the night she decided to stop hiding: me, laughing, in the gym she’d built, captured by a woman who’d been too afraid to admit she was in love.

Our coffee in the morning — one black, one with an obscene amount of oat milk.

Our bed, where neither of us woke at 4:45 anymore, because the woman beside us was reason enough to stay.

We dressed. Slowly, the way we did everything now. She picked rubber-floor texture marks off my knees. I wiped joint compound off her forearm. We found our clothes scattered across the pristine surface and put them on piece by piece, and the dressing was its own kind of intimacy — the reverse of the undressing, equally tender, equally specific.

Lauren locked up. Checked the east wall one more time. Set the alarm. We walked out into the November night arm in arm, two women who owned a building and a business and a future and each other.

The mirror was a quarter-inch low.

I never told Lauren I’d asked the crew to hang it that way on purpose.

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