I swallow hard. “Here?”
The question is half-joke, half-prayer. I’d pull her into my lap in a heartbeat, but I can’t tell if she’s really asking, or if she’s just playing with me. Minji tilts her head and considers, like she’s weighing the pros and cons of fucking me on the restaurant table.
Her voice drops to a whisper. “The door locks.”
I’m half-convinced she’s bluffing, but when I glance over, I see the heavy wooden door at the back of the private room. The place is deserted save for us and the promise of a dessert course that now seems extravagant and unnecessary.
I push my plate away, clearing the only obstacle between us, every cell in my body ready to spring forward. “Are you sure?” I ask. I need her to say it again, for both of us.
By way of answer, she stands, graceful but predatory, and rounds the table until she’s beside my chair. She studies me for a moment, as if she can read every doubt and every reckless impulse in my eyes. “Unless you’re not interested.” Her voice nearly cracks at the end of the sentence.
I stand so fast I nearly take the tablecloth with me. My chair clatters backward, the sound loud in the quiet of the private dining room, but neither of us so much as blinks. Minji stands her ground, jaw set and eyes glittering, but I see the way her cheeks flush, the way her breath quickens. For once, I’m notthinking about what comes after—I’m rooted in this moment, every nerve ending singing with anticipation.
With both hands, I grip her waist—not tentative, not coy, but hungry. She yields just enough, letting me draw her in until our bodies almost touch, the residual heat of her skin radiating across the scant space. I lower my head, brushing my lips against the shell of her ear, the faintest graze, enough to feel the pulse leap in her throat. “Interested doesn’t begin to cover it.” My voice is rough around the edges, and her answering shiver nearly undoes me.
She doesn’t give ground, though. In a single motion, she bends back, perching herself on the edge of the heavy oak table. The plates rattle; wine sloshes in trembling glasses. She braces herself with one hand, dress riding up her thighs. My mouth goes dry. I step between her parted knees, my hands sliding up over the sculpted architecture of her hips, and the look she gives me is half challenge, half benediction.
“And speaking of interested.” I pause just long enough for her to arch an eyebrow, “I’m very interested to know how this wine will taste dripping from your pussy.”
Her breath stutters, but she recovers quickly. Minji leans in, fingers unerringly finding my belt loops, and tugs me flush against her. The pressure of her body is electric. Her other hand grazes up my shirt, nails scraping lightly, not enough to hurt but enough that I know she could draw blood if she wanted. “You have such a filthy mouth,” she teases.
I take the lobe of her ear between my lips, worrying it gently. My hands slip beneath the fabric of her dress, fingertips tracing the warm seam of her thigh. “You love it,” I murmur. “You love that I can’t stop thinking about you, that in every room you’re the only thing I want to taste.”
She doesn’t answer, not directly. Instead, she reaches for the bottle and pours more wine into her glass, never breaking eyecontact, lips slightly parted in silent dare. “Prove it,” she says, and knocks back the wine in a single swallow. Then she guides my hand, fingers threaded with mine, and presses my palm between her legs, right where the silk is already clinging to damp heat. It’s not subtle. “I need you to fuck me with your mouth,” she says. The sentence comes out as a gasp.
I almost collapsed then and there.
But I’m not going to let her have it all at once. Not yet.
“I need to know you’re certain,” I murmur, not out of doubt, but because I crave her explicit consent, the surrender in her voice.
Minji doesn’t hesitate. She grabs my wrist, nails biting, and brings my hand up so my fingers are at her mouth. She dips her head and sucks them in, tongue swirling around the pads, tasting herself, tasting the wine. The sight is almost obscene. She pulls off with a pop, eyes wide, and says, “The rate you’re going, I should have packed a dildo.”
The words go straight to my spine. I take a step back, but only to hook her legs around my hips. “Sit there,” I command. She looks down at me like a queen on her throne.
I glance over at the door. It’s a heavy slab of wood—no windows, no chance of intrusion. Still, I move quickly, three strides across the room, and throw the bolt. The metallic thunk seems to echo off the wine racks. When I turn, Minji’s already got her dress bunched to her waist, her underwear balled in one fist and held up in a lazy display, her expression both smug and desperately needy. She lets them drop, and I hear the soft sound of silk on hardwood.
She spreads herself at the edge of the table, knees open, hands braced behind her. The overhead pendant throws a halo of light around her, silhouetting every curve. She’s not even pretending to be shy.
I drag the chair over, position myself just right—level with her, knees pressed to the table. I take her calf in my hand, raise it to my shoulder, skin goose-bumping in the cool cellar air. She tenses, then melts into the touch, eyes darting from my face to the wine glass on the table.
“Hold this one back for me?” I ask, voice low. She nods, extending her leg, fingers gripping hard behind her knee. I see a faint tremor ripple through her.
I take the wine glass, careful not to spill a drop. I tilt it, let a single bead fall, and watch it land on the inside of her thigh. Minji gasps, the sound small and punched out of her. Her breathing goes shallow.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
I lean in and chase the wine with my tongue, tracing it up her soft skin, savoring the sweet-bitter tang that overlays her own taste. I do it again, letting a thin stream run from her knee downward, and I follow, licking every drop, teeth grazing just enough that she jerks and moans. I keep my eyes on her, drinking in every reaction. The way her eyelids flutter, the quickening of her breath, the way her hands flex on the table’s edge as if she’s barely restraining herself from shoving me closer.
I set the glass aside and slide my hands up her legs, thumbs parting her further, and finally let my mouth descend where she wants it. She’s damp already, the heat of her staggering, and I press my tongue to her slowly, savoring her like she’s the rarest vintage on the menu. She arches, a keening sound escaping her.
I work her over with patience. I want her to come apart. I lap at her, alternating between slow circles and quick flicks, reading her responses as if I’m parsing legal precedent. She’s remarkably loud for someone so controlled, her usual composure shattered with every gasp and curse. I love it.
“More,” she blurts, and I smile against her.
I oblige, slipping two fingers inside her, curling them just so, and the effect is immediate—her whole body bows, head thrown back. Her thighs threaten to close around my head, and I let them, loving the sensation of being surrounded and trapped by her. She’s so far gone she nearly sobs my name, and I lap up every ounce of it. I can feel the climax building in her, the way her body gathers and tightens, the rhythm of her hips growing erratic.
The combination of her taste and the wine is intoxicating. She’s sweet and tart, a complex set of layers that unfold with each stroke of my tongue. Her thigh trembles against my shoulder as I work her slowly, thoroughly.
