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“Um…” I look up and clear my throat to force the rasp of neediness out of my voice. “It’s good. Very good, actually.”
Jude’s smile is relaxed and friendly. “Glad to hear it.”
“Yep. Good. Very, very, very good.”
Ugh. You’re being weird. Stop being so weird.
I clear my throat again. “How’s yours?”
“Delicious,” he answers, and the way his voice is all deep and throaty makes me shift a little in my seat.
“Good. That’s good.”
Holy hell, can you say anything besides good?
Apparently, I can’t because I am a ticking time bomb of horniness, and every second feels like I’m one persistent throb closer to bursting into flames. Or, worse, climbing over the table and straddling his lap and begging him to just fuck me right here in the middle of this fancy-schmancy restaurant.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, you’re losing it.
On a deep inhale, I shut my eyes briefly in an attempt to gain some control, but when Jude shifts his seat closer to mine and his warm hand reaches out to rest on my upper thigh, any chance of reining myself in goes poof.
His fingers skate along the edge of my dress again, just like when we were sitting at the bar, and my nipples take it upon themselves to harden and let me know they’d like some attention from him, too.
And when those fingers of his slide beneath the material of my dress and carefully make their way farther up my thigh, my breath gets tangled in my lungs.
Higher and higher and higher he goes.
It all feels painfully good, and in the spirit of keeping this moving in the right direction, I open my mouth to tell him just that, but our waiter chooses that exact time to step up to our table.
“How is everything?”
“Fantastic,” Jude says, and the instant the last syllable of that word slips past his tongue, one finger slides beneath my panties and directly inside me.
Holy hell.
A rush of arousal consumes my nerves, and I clench around him.
The waiter nods and smiles at Jude before looking directly at my face, and I have to bite down on my bottom lip when that pesky finger slowly starts to move inside me.
In and out. In and out. Each time, he adds a little curl in the middle that has bull’s-eye–like precision on a particular spot that pushes a pant of air out of my lungs.
“Did you enjoy the filet?”
When I realize our waiter is talking to me, waiting for me to respond, I nearly choke on the urge to moan and have to pretend to cough my way through it with my napkin held to my mouth.
Once I gain some semblance of control, I answer, “Mm-hmm.” However, Jude chooses that exact moment to add the use of his skilled thumb into the mix and starts making smooth circles over my clit. “Oh boy.”
“Excuse me?” the waiter questions with a quirk of his brow.
All the while, Jude’s hand keeps treating me like its own personal jungle gym. Playing with me. Toying with me. Sliding me straight toward the climax cliff. It’s wild. And forbidden. And the craziest thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Damn does it feel incredible.
But the waiter. The fucking waiter is still standing at our table, waiting for me to say something.
“Holy moly…it was…uh…so good. The best feeling…I mean, meal, yeah, the best meal I’ve ever had. Thank you, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the saints!”
“Uh…okay… I’m glad you enjoyed it.” The waiter’s smile is uncomfortable, and I start to worry he’s a little too keen on my current state of perpetual orgasm doom. Thankfully, he moves his eyes back to Jude. You know, the one person at the table who isn’t acting like a lunatic. “Have the two of you saved some room for dessert?”
If the dessert is anything but an orgasm, I don’t want it.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
When I realize I’m not keeping my thoughts to myself, my eyes go wide in embarrassment, and Jude smirks at me like the fucking devil from across the table.
But. He. Never. Stops. Sliding. His. Finger. In. And. Out. Of. Me.
The waiter regards me with confused eyes, most likely waiting for an explanation for the odd things coming out of my mouth, but I’m all tapped out on words. I can’t focus on anything but what Jude’s fingers are doing to me.
“We’re actually planning on getting dessert somewhere else tonight,” Jude comments, and the waiter simply nods.
“Oh, okay. Can I get you two anything else, then? An after-dinner coffee? Or a cocktail, maybe?”
Jude shakes his head. “Just the check would be nice. Thank you.”
The waiter clears a few of our plates from the table before heading in the opposite direction, and once he is completely out of earshot, Jude meets my unsteady, most likely glazed-over gaze. “You need to come, don’t you?”
