The wine is rich and complex, warming me from the inside out. Or maybe that's just Axel's gaze, steady and heated across the table.
He touches me, over and over, as if staking his claim in front of the entire city. Fingers sliding against mine, his palm heavy and hot on my knee, thumb grazing the sensitive skin of my wrist. Each touch is subtle, but I feel them everywhere—my skin tightens, breath quickens, every point of contact sparking between my thighs. He wants me, even when he pretends it’s casual. I want more, want his hands everywhere, want him to forget the restaurant and drag me back to the suite.
"Try this," he says, offering me a bite of his steak from his fork.
I lean forward, accepting the morsel, and his eyes track the movement of my lips. It's the most erotic thing I've ever experienced, being fed by this man who looks at me like I'm the real meal he's hungry for.
"Good?" he asks, voice low.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The restaurant suddenly feels too warm, too crowded. Heat spreads through me, thighs pressed together, desperate to feel his hands on my skin. Every brush of his fingers is a reminder that I am wanted, that he could take me right here and I would let him. I ache to be alone, to stop pretending, to give in to the pull he creates in me.
"What are you thinking?" he murmurs against my ear, his breath warm on my neck.
"That this is nice," I say, leaning back into him. "Being here. With you."
His arms tighten around me. "Just nice?"
I turn in his embrace, looking up at him. The ambient lights cast golden patterns across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes.
"More than nice," I admit. "It feels…"
I struggle to find the right words. Safe? Thrilling? Right? All of those, but something more too.
"Like I can breathe," I finally say. "Like I don't have to be on guard every second."
After dinner, Axel suggests a nightcap at the hotel bar. It's intimate and dark, with low leather chairs and flickering candles on each table. A jazz trio plays softly in the corner, the saxophone weaving through conversations like smoke.
I curl into the chair across from him, feeling pleasantly warm from the wine at dinner. The bartender brings our drinks, whiskey for Axel, a fancy cocktail for me that tastes like cinnamon and oranges.
"Can I ask you something?" I say, watching him over the rim of my glass.
"Anything." His eyes never leave mine, steady and warm in the dim light.
"Are you always like this?" I gesture vaguely between us. "So… attentive. So present."
He considers the question, rolling his whiskey glass between his palms. "Yes and no."
"That's not an answer," I tease.
"I'm always attentive with women," he says, leaning forward. "But not like this. Not with this intensity."
"What's different?"
His eyes darken. "I don't usually feel this… possessive.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t share. Not with you. When I want something, I take it. Everyone else fades away.”
Heat flares in my chest, sharp and overwhelming. The words hit something deep and primal, making my breath catch. My thighs clench under the table, awareness of him filling every inch of me. My voice comes out unsteady. “Your woman?”
"Yes." No hesitation, no qualification. Just absolute certainty.
I swallow hard, the word woman catching in my throat like I actually belong to him.
"Am I… yours?"
"Yes." Again, that immediate response. His gaze is unwavering, almost challenging. "Does that scare you?"
