She nods crossly, sitting back in her seat just as a waiter steps forward with our starters. She waits for him to put our plates down, then grabs my chair, trying to tug it closer to her. Bemused, I stand up, letting her drag the chair to sit right by hers. She glares at me until I sit back down. “Good. Now put your arm around me and feed me pasta, like a good date.”
When I don’t move, she huffs, picking up my hand and wrapping my arm around her. “Jesus,” she complains, snuggling aggressively against my chest. “Do I have to do everything around here?”
I thread my fingers through her soft, honey-coloured curls. “I’ve never been so violently hugged,” I say mildly.
She sniffs. “Get used to it.”
We settle down, focussing on the food. It’s great, but not even the three-starred Michelin chef could distract me from the feel of Briar tucked up against me. She leans her head on my arm as she eats, occasionally glaring at people that turn and stare at us. Matt and Kenta eat too, although they’re taking turns, one of them taking a few bites while the other scans the room. Briar finishes her wine, so I lean forward to grab the bottle. I’ve just pulled out the cork when she casually drops a hand below the table, running her fingers over my crotch.
Thirty-Five
Glen
?
I jolt, looking down at her. She smiles at me, her eyes twinkling. Before I can say anything, our waiter reappears, holding an oversized pepper grinder.
“Pepper, sir?”
“I—” Briar squeezes the growing bulge in my trousers, and heat rolls through me. I grit my teeth and force myself to smile at the man. “Sure.”
“Tell me when,” he says, and starts grinding pepper onto my plate. I try to focus, but Briar tightens her grip, stroking me firmly, and all thoughts fly out of my head. Her palm rubs over my stiffening hard-on, and my thighs clench with the effort of sitting still.
When I don't say anything, the waiter stops. “This is enough, sir?” He prompts.
“That’s good,” I get out, my voice cracking.
“Are you alright, sir?” He asks mildly.
“Peachy.”
“Hm. Perhaps some more water for the table?”
“That would be great,” Briar says, smiling. The waiter nods and turns on his heel, and I slump in my seat, running a hand over my face.
“Briar—”
“What?” She stabs her ravioli one-handed, taking a casual bite. “You want me to stop?”
“No,” falls out of my mouth before I can stop it, and she laughs, tracing down my shaft with her fingernail. I feel blood rush to my face, my hips rising as I grip the tablecloth. “Christ, Briar, I can’t—”
“Don’t worry,” she pats my cheek, dropping her voice to a husky whisper. “I won’t make you come.”
An agonised sound falls out of my throat as she withdraws her hand and reaches for her wine glass.
The rest of the meal is like some perverted form of torture. We eat slowly, consuming course after course of ridiculously fancy food. I can barely taste any of it. Briar keeps her hand still in my lap, cupped gently over my throbbing erection, and every time I relax, she starts to stroke me. She pushes me right to the edge, squeezing and palming and rubbing at me until I’m white-knuckling the table and twitching in my underwear. Just as I’m certain I’m about to explode, she pulls away, leaving me a panting wreck.
She’s making a mess out of me. And judging by Matt and Kenta’s smirks, they know exactly what’s happening under the table.
I get a little break when pudding arrives, and Briar gets distracted by her lava cake. We’re just finishing up when her little hand slips back between my legs.
I swallow a groan. “Briar—”
“What?” She picks out a strawberry, licking the chocolate sauce off it. “Problem?”
I glare at her. She has a smudge of chocolate on her bottom lip, and I lean in to lick it off.
A few feet away, Kenta clears his throat. “You have a visitor, Briar,” he says, his voice icy.
