"I'm hungry," Jeff said. "How about some dinner?"
* * *
Maggiano's was busy, humming with subdued energy. It was a Saturday night, and from what I knew, you had to have reservations to get a table here on the weekends, but somehow Jeff had managed it.
I stood next to him as we waited for the host. He was dressed simply, in blue jeans and a crisp, spotless white button-down, plain brown leather belt and polished dress shoes, but he made it look formal, almost dressy. I realized again how attractive he really was.
When the host led us to our booth, Jeff's hand found my skin between my shoulder blades, where my dress left my back bare, and even that small amount of contact left me trembling. A gentle, casual touch, but it was enough to make me want to feel his hand brushing down my back, sweeping across my naked backside again...
My sexual frustration was gone, but in its place was a raging, insatiable hunger. Now that I'd felt Jeff, had him, been in his bed and experienced his slow, thorough plundering, I couldn't get enough.
His dark eyes roved the restaurant, his big, warm hand holding mine gently. His presence next to me, his hand in mine...it felt natural, easy, and comfortable. But at the same time there was a sense of nerves in my belly, nerves and something else, a burning, fluttering of desire. His eyes found mine, and my heart pattered, thumping in anticipation.
We sat side by side in the booth, the light low and soft yellow, conversation from other tables washing over us in a dull blur of sound, Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald filling the spaces. We drank expensive wine, lingered over soup and salad, knees brushing, me asking questions and him answering in his typically spare way. I learned he'd been in the army for four years, done two tours in Iraq and been stationed in the Philippines after. He skipped over the army bit, saying only that he'd been a grunt, seen combat, and then clammed up. I could tell he didn't want to talk about it. I knew if I asked, he'd tell me, but he'd rather I didn't ask.
As we ate, I let my hand wander underneath the table to rest on his thigh. I was feeling...daring. At first, I left my fingers on his leg, but, over the space of several minutes, let it drift incrementally higher until Jeff lifted an amused and surprised eyebrow. He gasped audibly when I moved my hand high enough to feel his package, a thick lump even through the denim of his jeans. A few subtle zipping strokes of my hand on his groin had him hardening under my touch.
"What are you doing, Anna?" Jeff whispered to me.
"Doing? Nothing. What am I doing?"
He growled, a low grunt of irritation, arousal, and amusement. "Teasing me."
I circled my palm on him, felt him get hard enough to need adjusting. I tucked my fingers in the waist band of his jeans and pulled them away, allowing his erection to spring vertical.
"Teasing?" I ran my tongue over my bottom lip, stroking his denim-covered length underneath the table. "I never tease. I make promises."
"Promises. I'll bet." He squirmed in his seat, fully erect now. "We're in the middle of a restaurant. How're you going to keep this promise?"
I smirked at him, mimicking his tipping of one side of his mouth. "I didn't saywhenI would keep my promise, just that Iwould. And I will."
"Well I call that teasing." Jeff's eyes twinkled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled, worth more than an outright laugh from any other, more verbose, kind of man. "And two can play that game."
We were done with dinner, sopping up the last of the pink vodka sauce from our plates with focaccia bread; our server came by with a tray of desserts.
"Did you save room for dessert?" Our server was a young man with a faux-hawk and a carefully-trimmed goatee.
At that very moment, when the server approached and directed his question at me, Jeff slipped his fingers under my dress, between my thighs, and into my pussy, all in one sudden motion. My eyes flew wide and I gasped. Jeff's face remained impassive as he fingered my clit in slow strokes.
"Ma'am? Are you alright?" The server's brow furrowed in worry; my gasp had been sharp, a surprised intake of breath.
"Yeah...I just...oh...stubbed my toe on the—the table leg." Fortunately for my excuse, there was a central bar holding the table up.
"Are you alright?"
I stifled another gasp as Jeff sped his finger's attention to my wet, sensitive nub. "Yeah, yeah I'm fine."
"So, dessert?" He pointed at the various items on the dessert tray: New York-style cheesecake, lemon cookies, apple crostada, crème brûlée, tiramisu and spumoni...
I stopped listening when he got to spumoni, although to be honest, I only heard half of what he said anyway. My brain was scrambled by Jeff's strong, relentless finger circling my clit, by the need to stifle my usually-vocal reaction to my rising climax. I wassoclose, my thighs were trembling and I was using every shred of my self-control to not undulate my hips into his hand.
"Ma'am? Would you like to make a dessert selection?" The server was getting antsy and confused by my vacant, distracted behavior.
"Order what you want, Anna," Jeff said. "I'll eat whatever."
"I'll have...ahem—" I was reaching climax now, and speech was nearly impossible. "Crème brûlée, please." I wasn't sure I liked crème brûlée, couldn't remember ever having it; my mouth spouted an answer having completely bypassed my brain.
"Very good, ma'am," The server said, and then was gone, thank goodness.
