His finger slips beneath the lace, teasing my folds, circling my clit with a featherlight touch that makes my hips twitch. I grip the edge of the table, nails digging into the cloth, fighting to stay composed as he works me with slow, precise strokes.
“Look at me,” he says. I meet his gaze. “Do you want me to make you come, right here?”
I moan and close my eyes, trying my hardest to hide what’s happening.
“Y–yes.”
He keeps touching me, teasing my clit. “That would be indecent.”
“It would.”
“But you’re not an indecent girl, are you?”
When his finger slides inside me, curling just right, I choke back a moan, my pussy clenching around him.
“Damien,” I whisper, barely audible. My thighs begin trembling as he adds a second finger and pumps slowly, his thumb circling my clit in time. The din of the restaurant fades until it’s just him, his touch, and the pressure building in my core. “You’re gonna make me come,” I breathe, voice shaky, pleading.
He stops. The bastard.
“No,” he says, moving his hand out from under the table. “You’re notthatindecent. In time. When I want you to be.”
I moan and squirm a bit, wishing he was back inside of me. “You’re a real dick,” I say with a smirk. “You know that?”
“I know. We’ll finish this at home. If you’re good.”
The dessert lands, glossy and indecent in a socially acceptable way. I take the first bite. It’s rich, dark, and perfectly balanced. He watches me taste it, nothing else on his mind but me and the food.
“Good?” he asks.
“Very.”
He takes a bite, surrenders the spoon, and leans back.
“After New Year’s,” he says, practical again, “we’ll build a schedule with her. Three days a week. Morning blocks. No events on those nights. You design. You sleep. You eat.”
I raise my glass. “Look at you, being all soft.”
“I told you,” he says. “Incentive.”
We finish the dessert, the waiter brings the check, and he signs with that clean, precise script of his. The snow falls heavier outside as the trio finishes the song and takes a break.
Damien stands and offers his hand. I take it because I want to, not because I have to. His fingers close around mine, warm and firm.
“Let’s go home,” he says as we turn toward the exit.
CHAPTER 32
DAMIEN
The winter air is crisp as we leave the restaurant.
Snow falls, quickly accumulating on the pavement. My phone buzzes with a text from Orlov.
Had to loop the block. Traffic cop. Two minutes.
I tilt the screen so Cassandra can see.
Cassandra looks up at the sky. “Walk?”
