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Another nod. This one paired with a scowl.
I’ve clearly missed something, but before I can ask, Midas claims my lips and kisses me right in front of his friend and all the guests. At first, I’m taken off guard, but when his tongue seeks entry, I melt into obedience. I’m pretty sure I’ll always obey this man.
What he gives me is not a sweet peck of a kiss, it’s full blown PDA. A searing, bruising kiss. A kiss that claims. Like he wants everyone at the party to know I’m here with him. Only him. And I’ll be leaving with him, too.
If it was just about making a point, I might be annoyed. That kind of possessiveness has always seemed ridiculous and egotistical to me. Not a turn on. But with Midas, it feels different. He’s not trying to prove something with the kiss, he’s just stating a truth, uncovering it. Because I am his. At least for tonight.
When he pulls away, the music stops, and everyone stares. For a moment, I forgot they were here, but now I’m overly aware of it. My face is hot, and I’m not sure if it’s from the heat of the kiss, the warmth radiating off Midas, or simple embarrassment. What I know for sure is this man could become my undoing.
“Let’s feast,” Jethro says in a booming voice that echoes across the crowd. He leads us to a door on the other side of the room, into a space with the longest table I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s solid marble, not a seam or break anywhere to be seen, despite being at least twenty feet long.
How much money do these men have?
Jethro motions for Midas to take the seat at the head of the table, but Midas defers. Jethro hesitates for a few moments, but eventually takes the seat himself. Midas pulls out the chair on Jethro’s right for me and then takes his place beside me. A few of the guests gasp and whisper, like something more important has happened than a seating arrangement.
They all wait for Midas and Jethro to be seated before sitting themselves. There are no place tags, but everyone seems to know exactly where to sit. This is shaping up to be a very peculiar party. I wonder how often they’ve done this. What’s the occasion? I never asked.
While the staff serves the first course—because that’s the kind of event this is—Midas dances his fingers along the top of my thigh, a promise of what’s coming for me.
The food is delicious, and the conversation is lively. But I’m completely out of my element. To my relief, each time someone asks something I don’t know how to answer, or I feel awkward about the way the conversation is going, or I zone out and miss what someone said, Midas comes to my rescue. He changes the topic, repeats what was said, draws me into the conversation, or just answers for me when I get that deer in the headlights feeling.
It would annoy some women, but to me it feels refreshing. He never steals my voice, just props me up a little, guides me through the conversation, so I don’t have to feel so anxious about it.
All the while, he touches me. It begins innocently. His hand on my thigh or resting over the back of the chair. But as the dinner progresses, his touches become more scandalous. He plays with the hair at the nape of my neck, then drops and traces the dip in the back of my dress. His hand trails up my thigh, closer to my center.
By the second course, he’s worked the skirt of my dress up in slow increments until my bare knee is exposed, then my bare thigh. Hidden by the tablecloth, no one notices when his hand dips below the fabric, and he takes hold of the top of my panties.
He leans across me, and to everyone else it must look like he’s doing it to talk to Jethro, but I know he’s just disguising what his hand is doing between my thighs. He tugs my underwear at the same time as asking Jethro about some investment property.
While Jethro answers, Midas taps my hip, a silent command to lift.
As subtly as I can, I lift an inch off the chair. He pulls my underwear down past my hips, past my ass. I probably shouldn’t let him with as wet as I am, but I want him to keep going. My heart is racing like it’s trying to run right out of my chest.
While he keeps up a conversation with Jethro, he discretely slides the lace down my legs. When it gets past my knees, it falls to the floor and pools at my feet. I bend down to pick it up, hoping people will think I just dropped my napkin, needing to hide the evidence, even though I don’t know where—I don’t have pockets or a purse.
“Leave it,” Midas whispers.
Our eyes lock and hold. I can tell he’s as turned on as I am by the idea of leaving my underwear for anyone to find. It’s scandalous, and so unlike me, but it’s hot as hell.
His comment from earlier plays through my mind on repeat. I’m going to fuck you tonight. But I won’t tell you when or where. A shiver skates up my spine, prickling my skin and making my nipples tighten, aching to be touched.
When will he make good on that promise? I don’t think he’ll do it here, but I also didn’t think he’d kiss me the way he did in front of everyone when we first arrived. Maybe I should give him an opportunity.
I try to sound calm as I ask Jethro to point me in the direction of the restroom.
“I’ll show you,” Midas replies, standing up. I smile to myself at how eagerly he took the bait.
As he pulls out my chair for me, his hand brushes my neck, reminding me of when he gripped it earlier and drove his cock into my throat. We excuse ourselves from the table, and he leads me away with his palm on my back, fingers skimming the dip in my dress.
I wonder for a moment if they all know what we’re going to do. I’ve always worried about what people think of me. It’s probably what made me so responsible, always doing the right thing, being the good girl, coloring within the lines.
I’m not coloring in the lines tonight.
Midas leads me down a wide hallway, to a guest bathroom that’s decorated all in gold. I pause in the doorway, expecting him to kiss me, to push me against the wall, to come into the bathroom with me and lock the door.
But he leans one shoulder against the doorframe, puts his hands in his pockets and says, “I’ll wait out here.”
It’s not what I want him to say, but there’s a promise in it that makes my belly do little somersaults.
