“You’re shivering,” Alyssa notes. “Maybe you really are getting sick.”
“Maybe,” Wyatt agrees, shifting in his seat. He leans away from her, his posture changing to make it easier for my foot to reach him. He’s playing along. More than playing along—he’s inviting more.
The main course arrives, but I barely register it. The conversation flows around me, something about the Palmers’ recent trip to France, Daniela’s insights on European travel security measures, Mr. Kingsley’s views on international markets. I nod and offer brief comments when addresseddirectly, but my focus remains on the secret contact beneath the table.
My foot travels higher, tracing the firm muscle of Wyatt’s thigh. His breathing changes, growing faster, more shallow. He adjusts the napkin in his lap, and I hide a smile behind my wine glass.
“The Bordeaux region has changed so much since our last visit,” Thomas Palmer is saying. “The smaller vineyards are being acquired by conglomerates, losing their character.”
“That’s capitalism,” Mr. Kingsley replies. “Progress often comes at the cost of tradition.”
“Not always,” Daniela counters. “Some traditions adapt rather than disappear.”
I make a noncommittal sound of agreement while sliding my foot between Wyatt’s thighs. He parts them, giving me better access. When my foot presses lightly against his crotch, he lets out a soft gasp that only I notice.
He’s already half-hard. The knowledge sends a surge of satisfaction through me, pooling warm and heavy in my own groin. I shift in my chair, adjusting myself discreetly while reaching for my water glass. Across the table, Wyatt’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes glazed. To anyone else, he might look feverish. I know better.
I increase the pressure, feeling him harden further. His lips part, tongue darting out to wet them in a gesture that sends blood rushing south.
“—which is why I truly believe relationships can overcome even the most difficult challenges,” Mrs. Kingsley is saying, her eyes moving meaningfully between her son and Alyssa. “Carsonand I went through a stormy period when we were younger. We almost broke up over a misunderstanding.”
Ah. So we’ve reached the transparent portion of the evening, where Mrs. Kingsley tries to reframe her son’s girlfriend fucking his best friend as a mere “misunderstanding.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Kingsley picks up the thread. “It was a difficult time, but working through it made our relationship stronger.”
“I’m sure Wyatt and Alyssa can find their way through this rough patch as well,” Mrs. Palmer adds, smiling at the couple. “Young love is resilient.”
I press my foot more firmly against Wyatt’s now fully hard cock, feeling it twitch. His hand grips the edge of the table, knuckles white with the effort to maintain composure.
“I hope so,” Alyssa says. “Some things are worth fighting for.”
The naked ambition beneath her words is clear. She’s fighting for her family’s business connection to the Kingsleys, not for Wyatt himself. I wonder if her parents know what she did, or if they’ve conveniently accepted some sanitized version of events.
“What do you think, Mr. Holt?” Mrs. Palmer asks, pulling me into the conversation against my will. “You must see all sorts of relationship dynamics in your line of work.”
I withdraw my foot, giving Wyatt a moment to collect himself. “I think,” I say carefully, “that trust, once broken, is difficult to rebuild. Some violations can’t be walked back.”
A tense silence follows my statement. Mrs. Palmer’s smile tightens at the corners. Mr. Kingsley studies me with new interest.
“But not impossible,” Mr. Palmer insists, clearly sensing the shift in atmosphere. “With enough commitment from both parties—”
“It depends on the violation,” I interrupt, unable to stop myself. “And whether it reveals a fundamental incompatibility in character.”
Wyatt makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh or a groan as my foot returns to his crotch, applying rhythmic pressure now. His hips shift minutely, seeking more contact.
“Well,” Mrs. Kingsley says brightly, desperate to change the subject, “who’s ready for dessert?”
The staff reappears, clearing plates. I continue my covert assault on Wyatt’s composure, watching as he struggles to maintain a normal expression while his body responds to my touch. There’s something intoxicating about it—controlling his pleasure from across the table, surrounded by people who have no idea what’s happening. Including the woman trying to reclaim him.
I know I’m playing with fire. If anyone noticed what I’m doing, my career would be over. But I can’t help myself. The possessive need to mark Wyatt as mine, to prove that he responds to me in ways he never will to her, overrides my training, my discipline, and my better judgment.
As dessert is served, Wyatt’s eyes meet mine again, dark with need and a silent plea I can’t quite decipher. Warning me to stop? Begging me to continue? Doesn’t matter. I’m already addicted to the way he responds to my touch, to the trust in his eyes even when I’m pushing every boundary we shouldn’t cross. What Mr. Kingsley and Daniela told me earlier should bea deterrent. Instead, it just makes this more dangerous. And I’ve never been good at walking away from danger.
14
Wyatt
After dessert is cleared, my father offers everyone a tour of his latest antiquities haul, and I panic. Everyone’s pushing back chairs, gathering drinks, ready to follow him into the next room, but I’m stuck to my seat like it’s a life raft in shark-infested waters. Thanks to Gray’s foot games under the table, my dick is still at half-mast, and standing up right now would turn this fancy family dinner into a different kind of show altogether. I throw Gray a desperate look across the table. The bastard smirks, knowing exactly what my problem is.
