“I’m admiring them, and you.”
Eye contact stretches until the room narrows to the two of us.
I touch the stem of my glass, his gaze following the movement. “Cassandra, I have to be honest with you about something. The thought of you carrying—” He stops, recalibrates. “It does something to me.”
“A good something, I hope?”
“Makes me harder than I have ever been in my life,” he says.
His hand slides under the tablecloth to the inside of my thigh. No rush. All certainty. He doesn’t go any higher. He waits.
“Yes,” I say, wanting.
His fingers trace slow circles on the inside of my knee, testing. He increases the pressure along my inner thigh, stopping each time the waiter appears. My breath picks up, but I keep my face composed. He approves of the discipline; I can see it in his eyes.
“Smile for me,” he whispers.
“Bossy,” I whisper back, smiling.
“Accurate.”
The waiter appears with more warm sourdough. I grip my water glass as Damien’s hand withdraws, like he has never misbehaved in his life.
“More bread?” the waiter offers.
“Dangerous,” I say, voice light.
“We live for danger,” Damien tells him with a smooth grin. The waiter laughs and walks away.
His hand returns, a whisper higher. The string trio leans into something romantic, as if on purpose. The city beyond the glass looks like it’s been dusted with sugar.
“I’m not interested in displaying you,” he says. “I’m interested in keeping you.”
“I’m not a trophy.”
“You’re a choice,” he says. “Mine. And yours.”
“Dessert?” the waiter asks at my elbow, appearing with a dessert tray. There’s one with a dramatic French name and a gloss like a mirror. I point. “That one.”
Damien nods to the waiter.
“You’re generous,” I say, arching a brow.
He squeezes my thigh under the table. “I can be.”
I laugh under my breath. “Thank you,” I say quietly, circling back because gratitude feels right. “For Imani.”
“I can’t wait to see what you can do,” he replies.
“I can’t wait to show you.”
“Same here. Now, relax,” he whispers.
His fingers begin tracing the sensitive skin of my upper inner thigh.My legs part slightly, instinctively, my body leaning into my need. His touch is slow and perfect, inching toward the heat between my legs. I bite my lip, trying to keep my face neutral as a waiter glides past, oblivious.
Damien’s thumb brushes the edge of my panties, and I stifle a gasp, my slit already slick with want.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. “So wet for me already.”
