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Braydon’s arm brushes mine. His breath hot on my ear. “I love when you wear dresses.”
I set my glass on the table and pick my fork back up. “Mm, I bet you do.” Dresses hadn’t been in my attire rotation for some time—dresses aren’t ideal when you run a restaurant—but I love wearing them when Braydon is here.
“And if you moan like that again…”
I gather more pasta on my fork, spear a piece of shrimp, and lift the creamy lemon bite to my lips. But my lips don’t part. Instead, I twist in my seat—the action causing his hand to inch up my thigh—and smirk.
“Yes?” My legs part an inch. “What will you do?”
His hand on my inner thigh hasn’t moved. Not a single twitch of his fingers. To the rest of the group, Braydon appears cool and collected. But I know better. Heat radiates off him. The buzz I always feel when our skin connects hums through my veins.
When it comes to us, I don’t put anything past Braydon. If he wants me now, he will find a reason for us both to step away from the table. But I don’t think it’d be so simple to explain both of us leaving the table in the middle of dinner. Not unless we had to leave the restaurant.
His scarred brow peeks over his glasses. “Guess you’ll have to find out.” He turns back to his plate, picks up his fork, and scoops up salmon and rice. He doesn’t remove his hand from my lap but sparks a conversation with Geoff about his favorite hiking spots in the area.
One bite after another, I eat my meal without sound effects. I chat with Lena about the boutique and ask if the influx of tourists has been good for business. She brightens and talks at length about the difficulties of keeping the store well stocked. I share my recent find with sales numbers and tell her Willow and I are plotting to figure out why sales aren’t reflected in the traffic.
Almost done with dinner, I decide to test Braydon. His hand still rests in the same place. Hasn’t moved an inch.
I scoop noodles and shrimp onto my fork, part my lips, and moan louder than necessary as it hits my tongue. No one looks my way, but beneath the table, Braydon’s fingers curl into my flesh. The blunt edge of his short nails adds a hint of bite.
But nothing else happens.
Mentally, I smirk and cross my arms. Call him out for being all talk. Later, when we are in the middle of the dance floor upstairs, I will taunt him for not delivering on his promises.
“How was everything this evening?” The server sidles up to the table and starts clearing dishes. “Anyone for dessert?”
Logan and Geoff turn down the offer.
Fingers drift up my inner thigh and I bite the inside of my cheek. Dessert orders sound off around the table, but I don’t hear a single one. The tips of Braydon’s fingers brush the fabric of my panties.
“What’s on the dessert menu?” Braydon asks, his voice level and eyes on the server.
The server starts listing off options while Braydon strokes up and down, again and again, over the damp center of my panties. I do my damnedest to not pant at the table. Do my damnedest to not let on what is happening beneath the oak and cloth.
A finger grazes the edge of my panties, slips underneath, and glides through my folds. I part my legs more. Inhale deeper breaths. Fisting the napkin in my lap.
When the server reaches the end of the list, Braydon turns to look at me. “Want to share the chocolate lava cake?” he asks as his finger dips inside.
I clutch his wrist beneath the table. Swallow past the anxiety of being caught in a crowded restaurant. Lick my lips and smile. “Sounds delicious.”
One corner of his mouth kicks up as his fingers glide out. He looks back to the server, expression relaxed. “One chocolate lava cake.” Two fingers plunge into my core. “Two forks. Please.”
“Yes, sir.” The server walks off with empty dishes and our orders.
Conversations spark back to life around the table, oblivious to the constant pump of Braydon’s fingers between my thighs. In and out. In and out.
My eyes roll shut as fire and energy and a hunger unrelated to food expand in my chest, in my lower abdomen. I tighten my hold on his wrist, claw at his flesh; a silent plea to stop, but also to continue. He kisses my temple once before his lips hover near my ear.
“Don’t make a sound, firecracker.” He pumps his fingers faster. Curls them to rub that spot deep inside me no one else hits but him. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, so only I hear.
I open my eyes, scanning the table and restaurant to see no one paying us any attention. Grip his wrist and the napkin tighter as my orgasm builds. Part my lips and pant, not caring if anyone hears. Heat licks my skin, undoubtedly pinking my neck and cheeks in the dim lighting.
“Almost there, firecracker.” His fingers circle my clit once, twice, then dip back in. “Come on my fingers. I want to lick it off when dessert arrives.”
The mere thought of him licking my orgasm off his fingers in front of everyone is a turn-on I never expected. And just as the server approaches the table with dessert, I come undone. Clutch his hand and lock it in place as I drop my chin and catch my breath. Knuckle by knuckle, Braydon removes his fingers with a satisfied smile on his face.
Braydon cuts the lava cake in two with his fork. With his other hand, he dips two fingers in the liquid chocolate and then sticks them between his lips. “So. Damn. Good.”
