Chapter 22 #2
Her eyes blazed with fury—pure, incandescent rage that should have burned me alive but only made my pulse kick harder.
But her hands moved anyway.
Trembling.
Furious.
Obedient.
She unbuttoned her jeans with shaking fingers, the quiet rasp of the zipper impossibly loud in the space between us. Then she shifted her hips slightly, working the denim down just enough—hidden beneath the table, concealed by shadows and angles and the high back of the booth.
The fabric pooled around her thighs.
I watched her face the entire time, drinking in every flicker of emotion that crossed her features—shame, rage, defiance, fear.
Arousal she'd never admit out loud.
My hand slid across her bare thigh, fingers spreading possessively against smooth skin, and her entire body went rigid beneath my touch.
"Good girl," I murmured darkly.
Then I slid my hand higher.
Her breath hitched, sharp and furious, but she didn’t move. Those dark eyes of hers burned into mine, searching for the lie, the bluff, the crack in my armor she could exploit. She wouldn’t find one.
I didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. Didn’t give her an inch.
The restaurant hummed around us—clinking silverware, low conversation, the distant laugh of a woman at the bar. None of it mattered. The world had narrowed to this. To her. To the way her pulse jumped in her throat, to the way her fingers clenched into fists in her lap.
She knew I meant it. Knew I’d do exactly what I’d threatened. And that knowledge sat between us like a live wire, crackling with something darker than anger, hotter than shame.
I didn’t look down. Didn’t let my eyes drop to watch.
I kept them on her—on the way her lips pressed together, on the way her throat worked as she swallowed hard, on the way her pride warred with the heat blooming across her skin.
Her breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile.
I didn’t move my hand. Just let it rest there, fingers splayed against the inside of her thigh, thumb brushing dangerously close to where she was hot and wet and mine.
The air between us crackled, thick with something neither of us would name.
I leaned in, my lips barely grazing the shell of her ear. "Spread your legs."
She didn’t hesitate.
Not this time.
Her thighs parted—just an inch, just enough—like her body knew what I wanted before her mind could catch up.
The movement was small, subtle, hidden beneath the tablecloth, but I felt it.
Felt the way her muscles trembled, the way her breath hitched when my fingers shifted higher, teasing the damp lace of her underwear.
A whimper slipped past her lips.
I tsked, low and dark. "Uh uh, Belle."
Her entire body locked up, fingers digging into the edge of the table hard enough I heard her nails scrape against the wood.
I could see the pulse in her throat, rapid and wild, could see the way her cheeks flushed darker, the way her eyes darted toward the kitchen where Sarah lingered near the pass-through window.
"Wouldn’t want to draw attention," I murmured, letting my thumb press just a little harder, just enough to make her hips jerk forward before she could stop herself.
She bit her lip. Teeth sinking into soft flesh, muffling the sound she couldn’t quite hold back—a broken, needy little gasp that sent heat straight through me. My cock twitched, heavy and impatient, but I ignored it. This wasn’t about me.
Not yet.
I slid one finger beneath the lace, barely breaching her, just enough to feel how ready she was—slick, swollen, trembling around nothing. Her thighs clenched, but she didn’t close them. Didn’t pull away.
Good fucking girl.
I circled her clit with the pad of my thumb, slow and deliberate, watching her face the entire time. Her eyelashes fluttered, her breath coming faster, shallower, her knuckles bone-white where she gripped the table.
"Gideon—" Her voice broke, a desperate whisper.
"Quiet," I ordered, pressing just a little harder.
She obeyed.
Her back arched, just slightly, her body straining toward my touch even as her mind fought it. I could feel how close she was—her muscles tightening, her breath coming in sharp little bursts, her entire body coiled like a spring.
Then Sarah appeared at the edge of the table, balancing a tray with our plates, all bright smiles and oblivious cheer. "Here you go! Roasted chicken for the lady, and the steak for you, Mr. Jones. Can I get you anything else?"
Belle’s entire body went rigid.
I didn’t stop. Didn’t pull my hand away. Just kept my thumb right where it was, pressing in slow, relentless circles as I met Sarah’s gaze with a calm I didn’t feel. "We’re fine."
Belle’s nails dug into the table.
Her thighs shook.
I could smell her—sweet and desperate, the scent of her arousal thick between us—and it took everything in me not to groan, not to pin her to the booth and fuck her right there, consequences be damned.
Sarah lingered for half a second too long, eyes flicking between us, sensing the tension but not understanding it. Then she nodded, backing away with a murmured, "Enjoy your meal."
The moment she turned, Belle’s body betrayed her.
A shudder ran through her, her back bowing, her breath catching on a silent cry as she came—hard, fast, her entire body locking up before she could stop it. I felt the pulse of it against my fingers, the way her thighs trembled, the way her nails scraped against the table.
I didn’t let up. Kept my thumb right where it was, drawing out every last second, every shuddering breath, every trembling gasp.
Then I pulled my hand back. Slowly. Deliberately. Bringing my fingers to my mouth, I licked them clean—tasting her, savoring the way her eyes widened, the way her cheeks burned crimson.
"Eat your lunch, Belle," I murmured, picking up my fork. "You’re going to need your strength."