Page 106 of Suite 7

Gerald: Why do I feel like that’s not a compliment.

Me: It’s absolutely a compliment. I’ve been thinking about it all through dinner, actually. How perfectly it fits. How the fabric pulls across your shoulders when you reach for your wine.

Gerald: Vera.

Me: How much I want to ruin it.

No response.

The silence from him is louder than anything he could have typed. I know what it means. I know exactly what it means.

I grin and reach under my dress. Hook my fingers in the sides of my underwear, and slide them down inch by inch.

I step out of the burgundy lace, and hold them up. Take a photo — the lace dangling from my fingers, bathroom tile visible in the background, enough to make clear exactly what they are and where I am.

Me: Just seeing how this dress feels without them. The answer is better.

Send.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Stop.

Nothing.

I can picture him at the table. That muscle in his jaw ticking. Hand tight around his wine glass. Fighting for composure in a public restaurant while his submissive sends him photographs of her underwear.

I tuck them into my clutch and reach for my lipstick. Then put it back and switch it for the burgundy one — deeper, darker, the shade that makes a statement. I uncap it and lean toward the mirror.

He wants to be patient. He’s very good at patient. But I’ve been watching him all evening, watching the Dom just beneath the surface of the suit and the good manners and the dinner conversation, and I want him to stop being so careful. I want all of it, right here, right now, consequences be damned.

I smooth the color on slowly, watching myself do it. Then I choose to send one more text.

Me: I’ve been thinking about getting on my knees under that table and taking you in my mouth while you try to stay quiet. Would you manage it, Sir? Or would everyone know?

I cap the lipstick and drop it in my clutch, take one last look in the mirror — dark mouth, bright eyes, the look of someone who has made a decision and feels excellent about it.

Still nothing from him.

Good.

I take my time walking back. Unhurried, the way he moves when he wants me to feel every second of his attention. His eyes find me the moment I clear the doorway — I feel them before I see them — and when I do look, everything is exactly as I imagined. Jaw tight. Hand wrapped around his glass. Phone face-down beside his plate. The expression on his face pulls tight low in my stomach.

I slide back into my seat, all innocence.

“Everything okay?” I ask sweetly. “You look tense.”

“You’re going to regret this.”

“I’m counting on it.” I pick up my fork and take a bite of tiramisu. Let my tongue catch a bit of cream, and watch his eyes track the movement.

His hand closes into a fist on the table.

“So sweet,” I say.

“Don’t.” His voice is low. Strained.

“I can’t help it if this makes me think about other things I’d rather be licking right now.”

His jaw works.