He’s nervous. It’s adorable.
Fingers drumming the steering wheel.
Stealing glances like I’m made of spun sugar and might float away.
If only he knew I’ve already bookmarked the security-camera blind spot behind this restaurant and calculated how many minutes we’d have before the valet notices the rocking car.
We’re seated outside.
Fairy lights. Jazz trio.
Some couple at the next table is celebrating an anniversary with dessert forks and soft kisses.
I want to vault the table, shove Vitaly against the brick wall, and find out if he makes that little caught breath when I bite his collarbone.
Instead, I fold my hands in my lap and let my eyelashes flutter. “So… tell me something I don’t know about you.”
He laughs, shy. “You don’t want to know about me.”
Oh, sweet summer child.
I know the brand of coffee you buy.
The exact time you jerk off on Thursdays.
That you sleep in boxer briefs and nothing else.
Because I watch the camera feeds.
I tilt my head, all wide-eyed curiosity. “I do. What makes Vitaly happy?”
He starts talking. About growing up with his mother and grandmother, learning to cook pelmeni.
His voice is soft, accented, careful.
I nod in all the right places while my brain plays a highlight reel of spreading him out on his kitchen counter and eating pelmeni off his abs with my tongue.
The waiter brings wine.
Vitaly tastes it. Approves it.
I almost moan because watching his throat work when he swallows is foreplay I didn’t consent to but will absolutely be replaying later.
I sip my own.
Let my foot accidentally brush his calf under the table.
His eyes snap to mine.
I give him the tiniest smile.
Let me ruin you.
“Tell me more,” I say.
He talks about childhood winters, his mother’s hands dusted with flour, his grandmother humming old folk songs while pinching dumpling edges.
His voice goes distant. Warm. Aching.
