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Summary
He would look… he would look beautiful in a skirt. A short one, to show off those long, pale legs. One of those pleated ones, like a school uniform. Or a dress… something light, something that would flow. And his hair… with a bow. A white bow, or maybe pink. Tied back, leaving the nape of his neck bare. And the makeup… a very light pink lipstick, almost sheer. Just for a bit of shine. And underneath…
The image formed in his mind with obscene, vivid clarity. Nico, with that porcelain face and those even more striking blue eyes, wearing not a racing suit, but something fragile, delicate, feminine. The idea was so powerful that Lewis felt a heat rise from his chest to his face—and something else, an involuntary and embarrassing physical reaction beneath the covers.
What the hell am I thinking?! Stop! Stop it! It’s Nico Rosberg! The snobbish son-of-a-bitch who called me a mechanic's son! The spoiled little prince!