But I think I did it too early because just then, as I’m settling down into his sudden presence, I feel something. Something rough and scrape-y, somethingwarm,and I feel it on my knee.
My right knee.
It’s a hand. It’s fingers. It’s his.What?
Am I… Is this… Oh God, is he touching me? Under the table.
Yes, he is.
He’stouchingme. His fingers are grazing my knee. Actually no, not just my knee. I think his hand is so big and his fingers are so long that I feel his thumb rubbing circles on my thigh. On the underside of it, and my head snaps up, my eyes skittering over to him.
I have been looking down at the table, focusing on the dark grain of the wood, trying to tune him out, but now I’m watching him like my life depends on it. I’m watching his face, impassive and aloof, the way his lips are moving as he talks to Joe. I’m watching his deeply breathing chest, massive and corded. His shoulders, relaxed and broad.
I’m watching how calm he appears as he touches me for the first time. I mean, he has touched me before, but not like this. Not like… whatever this is. I can’t even think of any words to describe it. Except his thumb is moving, sometimes in a circle, sometimes side to side. Sometimes he even massages my soft flesh with those warm and rough fingers of his. As if trying to not only memorize the feel of my skin but also mold it into whatever shape he wants.
Once he’s done that, he moves on. Slowly, carefully, almost tenderly, I feel the heel of his palm sliding up. I feel his hand going under the hem of my dress, and he doesn’t stop until he reaches mid-thigh.
I’d wonder why he stopped here, why he picked this very spot, but I already know. He did it because my flesh is themeatiest here. It’s the juiciest and softest, like I’m really a fruit, a strawberry, his little strawberry and he can’t wait to eat me.
That’s it. That’s the word.Eat.
He’s eating me with his touch, his fingers. They squeeze my flesh, knead it, pinch it. He digs the pads of his fingers into my thigh now, like all that grazing and tender touching was only a façade. He doesn’t do tender. Not even when he’s touching me under the table while my date sits only a few feet away.
And I’m sitting here, frozen, my eyes wide, my cheeks flushed and my heart racing. I should move away but I can’t. I should put my hand on his and stop him. But I can’t do that either. All I can do is take it. Whatever he’s doing to me. And like it.
Oh God, Ilikeit, don’t I?
I like his brutal fingers and bullying touch. I like it so much that I have widened my legs. I’ve moved to the edge of my seat, brought my thigh closer to him so he has more access. I like it so fucking much, his hand on my thigh, that I’m… wet. And therealizationis what makes me move in the end.
It makes me jump.
I jump so high that my knees knock against the table, clattering the dishes and spilling the water and our drinks. I also knock off his touch in the process, thank God. And four eyes turn to me. But only one set seems remotely concerned. Joe’s.
“You okay?” he asks.
My heart is pounding but somehow, I manage to nod. “Y-yeah. Sorry. Just moved a little too fast.”
He keeps frowning. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Yeah, I just…” I take in a deep breath before continuing, “I don’t know what’s taking them so long to bring our food. Can you,” I swallow at the lie I’m about to tell, “check? I’m r-really hungry.”
Joe still regards me with concern, but being the good guy he is, he nods and leaves to go find our server. I breathe in a shakybreath, then finally turn to the man who’s been wrecking my peace ever since he sat down.
I don’t know what I expected to find when I at last looked at him. Maybe I thought he’d be his usual self, smirking and amused at my expense. All provocative while being unaffected himself. But finding him angry would not have been my first guess. Actually, angry is too small a word for him. He’s absolutely seething. And it’s not just the expression on his face, which alone is brutal and grating. It’s also his body. His harshly breathing chest, the vein on his temple that’s pulsing.
Not to mention his voice, when he growls, “Lose him.”
“What?”
“Right the fuck now.”
“Are you…” I breathe out sharply. “What is thematterwith you? Are you absolutely crazy? Youtouchedme. You?—”
“He started it,” he clips.
“He started what?”
His jaw pulses for a few seconds as if just the thought of it, whatever Joe started, is making him even angrier. “He touched you.”
