“Only if you believe in that stuff.” He sounds obscenely pleased with himself. “Now settle. We still have two more courses.”
The main arrives. Duck breast, the server explains, with parsnip puree, roasted figs, and a port wine reduction.
My hands tremble as my knife slides through the tender offering. The first bite is iron-rich and gamey against the sweetness of fig, but I can’t focus. The darkness closes in around us.
Every sound amplifies as he teases me again, the wet slide of his movement, my halting breaths. Anyone could hear.
He curls his knuckle, and I grip the edge of the table. The tension builds, my thighs trembling with the effort of staying still, of staying silent. I’m going to come in the middle of this restaurant, and I’m well past caring.
But he pulls his fingers free.
The denial is physical pain. A cramping ache that makes me double over slightly in my chair, and I’m grateful the darkness hides my expression.
“Finish your duck.”
I’d rather dump the plate in his lap.
Instead, I force down another bite, then set aside my cutlery.
Around us, conversations continue, oblivious. Weekday plans. Wine pairings. The mundane chatter of people who aren’t being slowly driven insane by calculated denial.
Dessert is a dark chocolate mousse with salted caramel and hazelnut crumble. Roasted nuts, cocoa, burnt sugar, all dissolving on my tongue in a rush of bittersweet intensity.
Damien curls his hand around my neck, holding me in place while he feeds me a bite, his breath a delicate tease across my lips.
“You’re awful.”
“Maybe.” The metal spoon is cool against my lips as he delivers another bite. “But remember, you’re the one in control here.”
His words stay with me as I swallow the last mouthful, holding the sweetness on my tongue.I’m in control.
My legs are weak from denied pleasure by the time we walk to the exit, and I lean into him more than I’d like as he opens the door.
Sunlight blinds me after two hours of complete darkness.
I throw up my hands, shielding my eyes even through the tinted glasses. But it’s still too much. I close my eyes, and Damien pulls me against his chest, his body blocking the worst of it as he guides me to the car.
The door shuts. The engine starts. Slowly, incrementally, the burning fades enough that I can crack my eyes open, squinting through my fingers at the dashboard.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better.”
And my answer encompasses more than my watering eyes. I’m sad, knowing our postponed conversation will take place soon. That I’ll ask him to choose.
Already knowing he can’t, he won’t, choose me.
When we’re back in his home, Damien leads me into the pool room. It’s entirely glass-walled, water reflecting rippling patterns across the ceiling.
I glance towards the changing room doors, but he pulls my dress over my head in one smooth motion, tossing it into the pool.
“What?” I grab a towel from a rack and cover myself, laughing. “You’re too poor to afford spare bathing suits?”
“We are. You finally uncovered our secret shame.”
He strips without any self-consciousness. One second, his sweatpants are pooling at his feet, the next he’s naked, arms stretching above his head before he dives in.
The splash echoes through the white-tiled space as he surfaces, water slicking back his dark curls. “Are you coming in, or will you stand there perving all day?”
