OPHELIA
The darkness swallowsus whole the moment we step inside the restaurant, and for once, I’m not the only one struggling to see.
Around me, other diners fumble and laugh nervously, their voices pitched higher with disorientation, but I move through the blackness with Damien’s hand warm against my lower back, tugging at the hem of the minidress that he selected this morning.
Damien’s torture continued overnight, my wrists cuffed to the bedhead in case I ‘strayed.’ My stubbornness has backed me into a corner, and I have no idea how to get out.
A lunchtime dining experience is a welcome distraction.
“Welcome to Nuit,” a voice says from somewhere to our left. “Please, take my arm.”
The host leads us through the space, carpet muffling our footsteps. Silverware clinks against crockery, breaking up the low murmur of conversation. In the complete darkness, soundtakes on texture and weight, each whisper and laugh pressing against my skin.
“Your table.” The host’s hand guides mine to the back of a chair. “Your server will explain the evening’s menu. Enjoy.”
I slide into my seat, and Damien settles beside me. His knee bumps mine, deliberate and warm. “Comfortable?”
“Probably more than you.”
His laugh is low, agreeable and intimate in the dark.
While the server explains the dark-dining restaurant, Damien catches hold of my wrist, bringing it up to his mouth. His lips brush my knuckles, tongue darting out to taste my skin, and that aching pulse between my legs surges back to life.
“Our first course is a compressed melon sphere with prosciutto air and aged balsamic. Please, use your hands.”
Our food is set down and I reach out carefully. First finding the plate’s edge, then something smooth and round, no bigger than a large marble. I lift it, and it’s heavier than expected, dense.
I pop it in my mouth, and it explodes. Sweet melon floods my tongue, then the saltiness of prosciutto. The balsamic cuts through with acidic sharpness, and I give a small whimper of joy.
“Christ,” Damien mutters. “That noise.”
“What? It’s good food.”
His hand lands on my knee under the table, and my muscles tense. All weekend, his fingers have been my tormentors. Now his palm slides higher, bunching the fabric of my dress until he’s touching my bare skin.
The second course arrives while his thumb traces lazy circles on my inner thigh. “Seared scallop with cauliflower puree, crispy pancetta, and brown butter,” the server announces and I barely hear over the roaring in my ears.
The scallop yields to the slightest pressure, butter-soft, and the puree beneath is velvet on my tongue, rich and earthy. Thepancetta adds salt and crunch, a textural contrast that makes each bite a small revelation.
Damien’s hand inches higher.
Around us, the other diners create a rich soundscape. The scrape of cutlery, appreciative hums, fragments of conversation that blur into ambient noise.
A woman laughs somewhere to my left, high and bright. Glasses clink. Someone drops a fork and curses softly.
Damien hooks aside my panties, and when his fingertip lazily teases, circling my clit, my fork clatters to the plate.
I clear my throat.
“Shh.” His fingers dance away again, maddening. “You need to finish your scallop. It’s getting cold.”
I fumble for my cutlery with shaking hands, spearing another bite. The taste could be cardboard as he slowly teases along my inner thigh, building that familiar tension low in my belly.
My legs squeeze closed but his other hand grips my knee, holding me open.
Close. So close. The pleasure coils tighter, my breath coming in short gasps I muffle behind my napkin.
His hand withdraws completely, leaving me throbbing and empty, and I want to scream. A tear trickles from my eye. “You are building some bad karma.”
