Page 1

Prologue

Blaire

The lock clicks and the noise of the dining room disappears behind the private bathroom door, replaced by the hum of the vent fan and the low gold light bouncing off the marble.

He's on me before I can turn around fully, his hand splayed against my stomach as he pulls my back flush to his chest, his mouth finding the curve of my neck, his breath warm and sensual against my ear.

We've been circling this all night — the accidental brush of fingers, the way his voice dropped an octave every time he leaned in to point something out on the menu, the deliberate slowness with which he watched me lick sauce from my thumb halfway through the appetizer. By the time dessert arrived, neither of us was pretending to care about food anymore, and when I excused myself to the restroom, it took him less than ninety seconds to follow.

I feel his hard cock against the small of my back, and it lights something reckless in me, something that's been simmering all through dinner every time his knee brushed mine under the table. His hands slide up from my stomach to cup my breasts through the fabric of my dress, kneading gently at first, then with more insistence, his thumbs finding my nipples through the silk and rolling them until they're hard enough to ache. I let my head fall back against his shoulder, giving him better access to my throat, and he takes it, his mouth trailing wet, open kisses from my jaw down to my collarbone, teeth scraping just enough to leave the promise of a mark.

I turn in his arms and drop to my knees on the cold marble tile without a second thought. My hands go straight for his belt, working the buckle loose with fingers that move faster than my thoughts.

He braces one hand against the mirror behind him and watches me the entire time, his composure from the dinner table already unraveling at the edges. I unzip his pants and his cock springs free—thick, hard, swollen at the tip. He strokes it once slowly, as he fists the base and rubs the head across my lips. I lean forward, greedy, mouth open, tasting the salt of his pre-cum as he groans.

I take him in, swallowing his length inch by inch until the head presses the back of my throat. He groans, low and raw, and the sound sends a thrill straight through me.

“Fuck, Blaire,” he growls.

I work him slow and deliberate, one hand wrapped around the base, my tongue tracing the vein along the underside before I take him deeper, savoring the way his stomach tightens under my palm where I've braced myself against him.

I pull back just far enough to swirl my tongue around the tip again, tasting the cum gathering there, before sinking down again. My other hand is cupping his balls lower, massaging gently as I work. His hips jerk forward, a barely restrained motion, and I hum low around him, letting the vibration do half the work for me, watching the way his knuckles whiten further against the sink behind him.

He fists a hand in my hair, and I suck harder with hollow cheeks, picking up my pace, feeling him tremble against my tongue, his jaw tightening further with every pass.

I don't want him restrained. I take him deeper, relaxing my throat, and the groan that tears out of him echoes off the tile in a way that makes my pulse spike, half thrill, half fear of being heard. His grip in my hair tightens as he fucks my mouth with his cock. I let him set the pace, matching the thrust of his hips until I feel the tremor building in his thighs beneath my hands.

He warns me with nothing but a rougher pull of my hair, and I suck harder in response, wanting to feel him break apart right here on a bathroom floor between courses. He goes rigid a moment later, and I feel his warm cum spill into my mouth with a low, ragged sound he barely manages to hide. His whole body shakes as I suck him through every last pulse, swallowing him in slow doses until he finally stills completely.

He drags me up by the arms the second he's spent, kissing me hard, tasting himself on my tongue, and it doesn't slow him down for long — if anything, the knowledge of what I just did to him seems to strip away whatever restraint he had left. He turns me to face the mirror, both hands sliding up my thighs beneath my dress until he finds the lace band of my panties at my hips and drags it down in one motion.

I step out of them, watching his reflection as he sinks to his knees behind me, lifting one of my legs to rest on the edge of the sink, exposing me completely to the cool air and to his gaze in the mirror. He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh first, unhurried despite everything, then another higher up, his breath fanning over skin still humming from his hands, before his mouth finally finds me from behind. He drags his tongue through my wet dripping arousal with a hunger that has me gripping whatever I can to stay upright.

He doesn't hold back — sucking, licking, working two fingers inside me at an angle that has my head dropping forward and my breath fogging the mirror in small clouded bursts. I watch myself unravel in the reflection, lips parted, eyes glassy, completely undone by a man on his knees on a restaurant bathroom floor while an entire dining room full of people carries on just beyond the wall.

Someone's footsteps pass close to the door outside, pausing for a half second before continuing on, and the jolt of adrenaline that shoots through me only sharpens everything he's doing, my whole body hyperaware of both the pleasure and the risk tangled together. He doesn't slow down for the interruption; if anything he adds more pressure–like he wants to see exactly how loud he can make me moan, while a door and a few feet of hallway are the only things standing between us and an audience.

He alternates the rhythm just enough to keep me guessing, slow deliberate circles giving way to quick, focused flicks of his tongue on my clit, his fingers never breaking their own pace inside me. I watch his eyes flick up to meet mine in the mirror between passes, checking, reading, adjusting to exactly what's working, and the intimacy of that gaze paired with what his mouth is doing has heat spiraling through me faster than it has any right to in a room this small.

My climax builds fast, too fast, and when it hits I have to bite down on my own hand to keep from crying out loud enough to be heard past the door. My whole body shakes against his mouth, my knees threatening to give out entirely as I release on his tongue. He doesn't stop until the last tremor fades, holding my hips steady through every wave.

He rises behind me, and I hear his belt hit the floor again — already discarded, only his zipper left to rasp open before he readies himself once more, already hard from the taste of me still on his lips. He bends me forward over the sink, one hand flat between my shoulder blades, and the other fisting his cock as drives into me from behind in a single deep stroke that has me gasping into my own reflection.

He doesn't ease into it. He fucks me like we're running out of time, which we are — like the whole restaurant is one wrong glance from finding us out, and that edge of danger only makes every thrust land harder, sharper, more urgent. I brace against the sink and push back to meet him, watching his face in the mirror, watching the control slipping out of his eyes with every stroke.

He leans forward, chest pressing against my back, one hand sliding up to grip the front of my throat, tilting my head so I can't look anywhere but straight ahead at our own reflection—at the two of us completely undone in a bathroom mirror gilded in soft gold light. His hips never break rhythm, and he continues with deep, punishing strokes that have my thighs trembling with every thrust.

My whole body is being held up by nothing but his grip, his hand at my throat and the other at my hip holding me exactly where he wants me.

He reaches around and presses two fingers against my clit, circling in rhythm with his thrusts, and it sends me spiraling into a second orgasm that has my whole body seizing around him. He follows almost immediately, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep in my pussy walls and spurts inside me with a groan he muffles against my shoulder. His whole body is now shaking through the aftershocks. He stays there a moment, both of us catching our breath, foreheads nearly touching in the mirror, before either of us can quite convince our legs to work properly again.

He slowly pulls out, his cock covered in our combined pleasure, as he squeezes the cheeks of my ass.

We straighten our clothes in silence, both of us breathing hard, catching each other's eye in the mirror and biting back something close to laughter at the absurdity. By the time we slip back into the dining room, no one at the table even notices we were gone. I sit with my legs crossed, his cum still slick and dripping against my thigh, and let it sit there like proof, hidden under linen and candlelight, while the conversation carries on like nothing happened at all.

PART ONE

*SEVEN YEARS AGO*