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"Fuck," I gripped the edge of the table as his finger slid inside me. My heart thundered in my chest, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out the ambient noise of the restaurant. The risk of getting caught should've been a deterrent, but the thrill only heightened the sensation. Each stroke sent electric sparks coursing through me.
"Quiet," Kylo reminded me. His face was serene like he was discussing the fucking weather or something while his fingers worked magic between my trembling legs. "We wouldn't want to draw attention."
"Dammit, Kylo," I moaned under my breath and bit my lip to stifle any more sounds.
"Like that, do you?" His voice was like velvet, dark and smooth. I nodded and barely managed to keep my composure when his pace quickened.
"More," I gasped and leaned forward. My elbows were on the table, my head bowed like I studied the menu. In reality, I was seconds away from shattering, my mind awash with the potent blend of desire and danger.
"Greedy girl," he scolded and his finger curled inside me, hitting spots that blurred my vision.
"Please," I whispered, the word escaping me like a prayer, and Kylo obliged, his skilled manipulation coaxing my body toward an explosive release.
The pressure mounted. Oswin Yorke could have been making his move any minute, and there I was, struggling to keep my moans as silent as the secret we harbored between us.
"Hard to concentrate?" Kylo's voice was a husky whisper, so close to my ear it sent shivers down my spine. "Just pretend you're really into the steak. You always were good at faking it."
I shot him a glare, but it melted into a gasp as he hit a particularly sensitive spot.
Damn him. And damn this game of pretend that felt dangerously real.
"Try harder," I managed through gritted teeth, my hand gripping the stem of the wine glass like a lifeline. I took a sip but the rich red failed to quench the fire he stoked inside me.
"Your acting skills need work." His thumb circled, slow and deliberate and a smirk played on his lips as he watched me squirm. "You look too... flushed for a woman simply enjoying her dinner."
"Shut up," I whimpered back and forced a smile for anyone who might glance our way. "Or you'll ruin the mission with your damn ego. Remember, we're just two lovebirds out for a fancy meal," I reminded him, even as my body betrayed me, succumbing to the waves of pleasure he orchestrated.
"Of course, darling," he played along and raised his glass to mine with a clink. But his other hand never paused, relentless in its pursuit, driving me towards the edge while the weight of our task pressed down on me.
"Kylo," I breathed, barely audible. The intensity of the moment wrapped around me like the velvet shadows of the room. I needed release—both from his maddening touch and the burden of avenging my mother's death.
"Almost there, aren't you?" he teased, knowing full well the power he had over me.
"Almost..." I echoed, my focus fracturing as the pleasure built to a climax.
"Keep it together," his eyes never left mine. "We can't afford a scene."
The murmur of posh chatter was like a lullaby compared to the symphony Kylo played beneath my dress. My back arched imperceptibly as his thumb grazed just the right spot, and he smiled at me with the calm of a man just having dinner with his wife.
"Shh," he cautioned with a sly grin. "You wouldn't want our audience to overhear your reviews."
I bit down on my lip and tasted blood—a small pain that grounded me to this act. Each stroke was precise, intentional, driving me closer to the edge. I could feel every detail: the slight callouses on his fingers, the warmth of his palm against my thigh, the relentless pressure that promised release. He found that sacred spot inside me and coaxed a silent scream from my lips. My vision blurred, the chandeliers above melting into a sea of golden light as pleasure coiled tight in my belly.
"God, I need—" I started, biting back the end of that sentence.
"What do you need?" he taunted, knowing full well the answer as he continued his maddening pace."Come for me, Averill," he demanded, and I did. My climax washed over me in a silent wave of ecstasy and my nails dug into the white linen tablecloth.
My breathing slowed and I dared to raise my eyes to meet his, finding nothing but smug satisfaction in his gaze. He withdrew his hand, now glistening with my cum, and before I could protest, dipped his fingertip into the leftover whipped cream from our dessert.
"Clean them," he commanded, his voice gravelly and smothered with his own raw need. With a glimmer of mischief in my eyes, I wrapped my lips around his fingers, tasting myself mingled with the sugary rush of cream. Hunger in each slow stroke of my tongue as I lapped him clean, while he watched with an intensity that ignited fires within me. His gaze held a predator's gleam, sharp and hungry.
"Good girl," he praised and withdrew his fingers.
Just then, movement at the periphery of my vision caught my attention. Oswin Yorke rose from his table and his tall frame cut through the crowd like a knife. "Time to go," I said and signaled the waiter for the check with a forced calm I didn't feel.
We followed Oswin out of the restaurant, the night air crisp against the heat that still radiated from my body. But before we could make our next move, the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against my forehead. Oswin's silhouette loomed over us like an omen of death.
"Hello, Averill," he said, his voice smooth and deadly. "Fancy meeting you here."
