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When we reach the restaurant and we’re shown to the table, I quickly walk around the table and pull my chair out, taking a seat and picking up the menu to distract myself from the swift mood change only moments ago.
I notice Atlas doesn’t take his seat. He waits for the host to leave, smiling at him before walking over to my side of the table. He reaches for the menu, taking it from my hand and placing it down on the table.
“I was looking?—”
“You do that again and we’re going to have a little talk,” he interrupts, leaning down to look at me, his voice calm and even.
“Do what?”
“Pull out your own chair.”
“Oh, sorry,” I mutter, confused at how serious he’s taking this.
“Have some patience, hmm?” He lifts his brows at me, his presence over me imposing and a touch exciting.
“It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t,” he says, finally taking a seat, his eyes still glued to mine.
The food is fantastic and the wine is refreshing but I’m struggling to enjoy it, the scowl on Atlas’ face putting a damper on the evening. I finish my first glass of wine, the waiter quickly pouring me another that I waste no time enjoying.
“Are you trying to get drunk?” he asks, not bothering to look up at me from his plate.
“Are you trying to be an asshole to me?” He glares and I glare back, the wine already giving me a little more courage than usual. “Might as well if you’re going to continue to have extreme mood swings.”
He places his fork on his plate slowly, picking up his napkin to gently wipe his mouth before replying. “You know, when you speak to me in that manner”—he places his elbows on the table and leans forward slightly—“it really makes it hard for me not to shove my cock down your throat so you can’t speak at all.”
I almost choke on my wine but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of shocking me. I finish the second glass in record time, smiling at Atlas as the waiter scurries over to pour me a third. “A little more,” I say, gently tipping the bottom of the bottle.
“For the record, darling”—he smiles—“I wasn’t mad or frustrated at you. I’m frustrated and upset with myself about earlier.”
“Look.” I hold up my hand. “If you’re going to give me a speech about how it was a mistake or you regret it, can we not do that? I’m already well aware that this is fake.” I make sure to lower my voice even though we are seated privately away from anyone else. “No woman alive wants to hear how she was a mistake or a regret.”
“I wasn’t,” he says confidently, and it surprises me. “I was going to say that I’m frustrated because all I can fucking think about while sitting here is wondering if you are as wet and frustrated and turned on as I am hard right now.”
“Oh.” My mouth falls open.
“Is your cunt tight?”
“Uh.” My eyes bug out, my mouth hanging open now.
“I know it is.” He casually leans back, like he’s talking to me about the weather or golf. He holds his tumbler of liquor in one hand as he stares at me. “I bet you have a tight pink cunt that tastes like pure heaven.” He sips his drink and I chug my wine, my cheeks so warm I’m not sure if it’s shock or my sunburn. “Have you been complimented before on how you taste?”
“Yes,” I say as if this is a completely normal conversation. He nods, taking another sip.
“When you masturbate with your pink cock, do you fuck yourself with it?”
I nod, looking around to make sure no one can hear our conversation. “Sometimes.”
“Can you come like that?”
“Only when I do it.” He cocks his head slightly.
“Meaning you’ve never come when a man is fucking you?”
“I have but I was helping myself along,” I reiterate.
“But when you masturbate and you fantasize, you can orgasm just penetrating yourself?”
