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“Of course.”

“Of course,” he repeated slowly and sardonically. “Tell me what they taught my obedient little wife.”

The alcohol was helping. I wasn’t sure I could have managed any of the words without it, but a cursed blush still crept back up my cheeks as I spoke, “I don’t excel at deep throating . . . I have a gag reflex . . . so I’ve learned to suck hard and use my hands a lot . . . with a very firm grip . . . to make up for the shortcoming. I’m told this can be just as satisfying for you if I do it right.”

“And what exactly did you learn on?” he asked, and there was a cut to each word. “They didn’t bring in a real cock to teach you, I hope,” he drawled and I could hear something ugly under his quiet voice.

Why is this making him angry? I wondered.

“No, of course not,” I answered finally, then listed off the various objects I’d practiced sucking on for his benefit.

I was too self-conscious to steal even one quick glance at him.

He fingered the edge of my panties. “Don’t worry, wife. Tonight is our first date, and mandated though it is, I feel like tending to you.”

I squirmed, looking around. He wouldn’t. Not in public. Would he?

“No one can see my hand,” he assured me, voice pitched very low. “I’m going to get you off. Right. Here.”

A bone deep shudder seeped into me. Not a shudder of revulsion either. It was one of delight. What was wrong with me? My eyes shot to his. My cheeks were flushed. I was well and truly scandalized. “But we’re in public.”

“We are,” he agreed. “This is a very crowded place, and it’s getting more packed by the second. You’re going to have to behave yourself. Contain your reactions. Keep very quiet. Do you think you can do all of that?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

“Are you telling me they didn’t train you for this?” I thought he might have actually been teasing me, but I was too alarmed to try to figure it out.

“They didn’t.”

“Well, try your best, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Give me your mouth again,” he coaxed in his deep, cold voice.

I did and I couldn’t stifle my gasp as his finger pushed past my panties and reached the lips of my sex. It was disorienting. And arousing. He rubbed me there, his touch feather light, his lips firm and warm and delicious against mine.

One of my hands gripped the table, the other holding onto the lapel of his jacket as I sucked at his mouth, hyperaware of every minuscule movement of his hand beneath the table.

He drew his mouth away just far enough to speak. “You’re wet,” he pointed out, his tone full of something warm and addictive, and started kissing me again.

Abruptly he jammed a finger into wet me. I gasped into his mouth.

He held it deep inside me, stroking at the most addictive spot. With a whisper soft touch, his thumb started softly toying with my clit.

“You’re not as cold and dispassionate as you appear,” he remarked with ironic dispassion.

I didn’t respond with words. I couldn’t. His actions were monopolizing all of my oxygen. I panted against him like a bitch in heat.

He spoke into my mouth, his voice rumbling low and rich, at last showing the weakness of his desire. “You’re not cold at all. You’re burning up, and tight enough to hug my finger. Do you have any idea what that does to my dick?”

I was still incapable of answering. Liquid heat flooded me. He’d started pumping in and out of me with concise, measured strokes. He kept his thumb against my clit, the pressure against it ebbing and flowing with every measured drive of his hand.

He stroked his tongue into my mouth. Instinctively I sucked at it. He worked it in and out until it was fucking into me just like his finger.

With a sexy little groan, he plunged a second finger into me and started stroking at that spot deep inside of me again.

By then I didn’t care that we were in public. I didn’t care if anyone noticed what was happening under the table. I wrapped both arms around his neck and drew desperately at his mouth.