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“Oliver, let’s go to Prime.”
His hand slides a little higher on my thigh, this time his fingers grazing the inner portion, making me want to scream. I clench my jaw so I don’t draw attention to myself by squeezing his hand between my thighs. To him, this probably means nothing, just a casual touch on a woman he has no long-term interest in. I could be replaced with any number of faceless women in this city, I tell myself.
“What about our clothes?” I point toward his under t-shirt and pants, then look down at my casual outfit. “Aren’t we underdressed?”
“Trust me”—he slides his arm around my body and pulls me tightly toward him as we make our way into the restaurant—“nobody gives a fuck what we’re wearing.” He leans in, nibbling my earlobe as we pass the hostess stand and head straight to a table in the corner. “And trust me, that’s not what they’ll be focused on.”
He’s right… or at least I assume he is. I’m too distracted by the way he can’t keep his hands off me. His arm is around my shoulders in the booth, his fingers absentmindedly playing with my hair as he places our order with the waiter.
“I’m nervous about trying oysters,” I say once the waiter leaves, but Atlas doesn’t seem interested. His other hand is turning my face toward him, his lips on mine almost instantly.
“Your lips taste so good,” he murmurs against me, his tongue dipping inside my mouth. Instantly, I’m wet, achy, needy for him. I love and hate that he does this to me. I love the excitement of it all, but I get confused when he says things like this. Is it just for show? Is it to draw a real reaction out of me so it’s more convincing?
I get that we’re in public and that’s exactly why this is happening, but I can’t help the way my body responds to him, the way my brain automatically wants to be giddy and excited at where this will lead when we leave. But there’s only one way the night ends up, me alone, just like every other night. So I decide to lean into it. If he can enjoy it, so can I.
“Mmm.” I slide my hand into his hair, tugging on it slightly as we deepen our kiss. His hand is around my throat, his tongue playfully coaxing mine. “Just imagine how much better I taste elsewhere.” I suck his tongue, eliciting a growl from his chest that sounds primal as his fingers dig into my inner thigh beneath the table.
“Oh, I’ve imagined it plenty of times, baby,” he whispers in my ear, his fingers tightening against my throat slightly. “That’s the problem.”
Seconds later our very public display of affection is interrupted by our waiter with a large tower of oysters.
“Oysters for the table,” he says, placing them down and pointing out the different sauces.
I feel overwhelmed, the intensity of what just transpired between us leaving me struggling to focus on what he just said. “So, how do we eat them?”
Atlas leans forward, taking a shell in his hands and placing it at my lips. “Simply open and swallow.” The double entendre isn’t lost on me as I eye the strange lump of goo on the shell in front of me.
“I don’t chew it?”
“No.” He continues holding the oyster out toward me. “Just try one, Stella.” I open my lips slightly, but then close them again. “Open your mouth,” he says a little firmer this time. I go to reach for the glass of champagne in front of me, but he grabs my hand and shakes his head. “No champagne until you try one. Now”—his hand squeezes my thigh again—“I won’t say it again so open your pretty fucking mouth like a good girl.”
I obey, my mouth popping open as he tilts the shell and the oyster slides slowly into my mouth. I close my eyes, a salty brine taking over my taste.
“Swallow,” he commands and I obey instantly, holding my breath as it slips down my throat. “Good girl.” He winks, running his thumb over my bottom lip. He brings it to his mouth and licks it clean. “See, that wasn’t so bad now, was it?”
“That was awful.” I shiver, grabbing my glass of champagne and downing half of it to get the taste out of my mouth. “You enjoy that?”
He doesn’t respond, just picks up an oyster and swallows it. “Do you always swallow?” he asks so nonchalantly, taking a long sip of his old fashioned.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you always swallow?” This time he looks right at me when he says it, any confusion on if I misheard gone.
“Uh.” I blush, fumbling with my flute of champagne. “That seems like a very personal question.”
“And?” He furrows his brow. “You’re my wife, Stella.”
“Yes, but…” I’m so confused on where this line lies between us.
“But what? I thought we agreed on no secrets.”
“We did but I wouldn’t call that a secret.”
“What would you call it?” I watch as his fingers gently turn the tumbler in his hand. It’s an innocuous movement, something so simple and yet so weirdly sexy. The ring on his pinky draws my attention. I reach forward and run my finger over the ring, his movements stilling.
“What’s the significance of this ring?” He watches as I run my fingers over it, his hand moving slightly so that he can tangle it with mine.
“Answer my question and I’ll tell you.”
