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Despite it being a three-star Michelin restaurant, with food being prepared by one of the best chefs in the world, and—if I may be so bold—with him being in terrific company, he looks straight-up glum. Like he’s at a funeral, not a date.
But I know him. That’s exactly why he’s got that grumpy, gruff look on his face.
“You don’t do dates, do you.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Does the Pope work Sundays?”
If we want to split hairs, he’s still not really “doing” a date. I mean, yes, we’re at Le Bernardin eating together as husband and wife, but we’re only here because Meredith set it all up as a photo op.
Isn’t it romantic?
Currently, as we smile over-the-top, lovey-dovey smiles across the table at each other, with Gabriel’s campaign manager directing us, media photographers carefully chosen by her are camped outside, snapping away with their telephoto lenses.
Yes, I know it’s staged. Doesn’t mean I can’t allow myself to enjoy being out with Gabriel, right?
I mean, just because he doesn’t “do” dates, it doesn’t mean that I don’t.
So I make a big show of laughing uproariously when he mutters something about needing to finish something at work. When our next course arrives, I make a hugely dramatic “yum” face before reaching across and extending my fork with a delectable bite to him, as if I need him to join me in this culinary ecstasy.
“You’re terrifyingly good at this.” Gabriel says it with a wider-than-wide smile on his face for the benefit of the photographers outside.
“Good at what?” I shrug.
“Faking it.”
“Oh, believe me, you have no idea.”
“Hmm. I’d be interested in seeing how much you faked it if I bent you over this table right here and right now and fucked you hard while you gagged on your panties.”
Outwardly, I’m still smiling benignly.
Inside, my core explodes with heat as my thighs clench together under the table.
“Is that a promise?”
“You know it.” He lifts his eyes to mine, his lips curling dangerously as he stabs a bite of food with his fork. “Kitten.”
Heat teases up my spine as I try to compose myself.
This is the back-and-forth banter we’ve fallen into. To the world, obviously, we’re husband and wife. But in private, things are…changing.
Twisting. Getting more complicated.
Most of the time, we’re still basically roommates who happen to work at the same office. We don’t “do” dates unless it’s a publicity thing. We sleep in separate bedrooms.
At other times, though, we’re explosive.
Like the times when he chases me through the house, catches me, and fucks me brutally. The times when he calls me into his office at work, draws the blinds, and then fucks my mouth until cum and spit drip down into my cleavage and I have to change my blouse before going back to work.
Or the times I’m making breakfast and he walks up behind me, pins me to the counter, and devours my pussy from behind while spanking my ass until my legs don’t work.
If those were the only two sides to this coin, I would get it: outwardly, we’re playing a role, and privately, we use each other to explore the dark, vicious kinks we both have.
But recently, slowly, a third facet of this has emerged. Take for example an evening like this: even though there are cameras present, we’re moving past “just for show” and into something that feels a whole lot like flirting for real.
Growing closer. Blurring the line between contractual marriage and real couple.
