He made the reservation.
I made the promise.
“No panties,” I whispered in his ear before we left. “And I’ll keep my legs open—if you behave.”
He didn’t.
It was a rooftop restaurant. Clean linen, crystal glasses, soft jazz in the background.
The kind of place where people keep their voices low and their hands above the table.
Except his.
His hand slid down my thigh while the waiter recited the specials. Fingers skimming my bare skin, brushing the soft crease where thigh met heat. I kept my face still—smiling, nodding, pretending to listen to truffle risotto and seared scallops while his fingers made quiet promises.
Under the table, his touch was slow. Circular. Teasing.
Over the table, he was polite. Charming. A man discussing wine pairings.
When the waiter left, I leaned in.
“Is this how you behave?” I asked.
He smirked. “No. This is how I make you blush in candlelight.”
And he was right. My chest was warm, my cheeks flushed. I shifted in my seat and felt how slick I’d become. The soft press of the chair fabric against my bare folds was both relief and torture.
“Spread them,” he said quietly.
I obeyed.
He moved deeper.
Two fingers, slow and deliberate. Pressing inside me, curling just enough to make my breath stutter.
A woman at the next table laughed. A sharp, happy noise. I smiled too, as if I had heard the joke—when what I felt was the pressure of his knuckles and the wet sound he was trying to muffle beneath the hum of the dining room.
My hand gripped the napkin in my lap. My foot bumped his calf. My orgasm built like a rising tide.
He leaned in and kissed my cheek, just as his fingers curled hard inside me—and I came. Silently. Perfectly.
I didn’t gasp. Didn’t move. Just trembled, slow and secret, while the city glittered outside the windows.
After dinner, I stood up carefully, legs still unsteady.
As we walked past the hostess stand, I turned to him and said:
“You still have two fingers inside me.”
He smiled.
“And dessert hasn’t even been served.”
