Chapter 31
CASSANDRA
The dining room of Aster I can see it in his eyes.
“Smile for me,” he whispers.
“Bossy,” I whisper back, smiling.
“Accurate.”
The waiter appears with more warm sourdough. I grip my water glass as Damien’s hand withdraws, like he has never misbehaved in his life.
“More bread?” the waiter offers.
“Dangerous,” I say, voice light.
“We live for danger,” Damien tells him with a smooth grin. The waiter laughs and walks away.
His hand returns, a whisper higher. The string trio leans into something romantic, as if on purpose. The city beyond the glass looks like it’s been dusted with sugar.
“I’m not interested in displaying you,” he says. “I’m interested in keeping you.”
“I’m not a trophy.”
“You’re a choice,” he says. “Mine. And yours.”
“Dessert?” the waiter asks at my elbow, appearing with a dessert tray. There’s one with a dramatic French name and a gloss like a mirror. I point. “That one.”
Damien nods to the waiter.
“You’re generous,” I say, arching a brow.
He squeezes my thigh under the table. “I can be.”
I laugh under my breath. “Thank you,” I say quietly, circling back because gratitude feels right. “For Imani.”
“I can’t wait to see what you can do,” he replies.
“I can’t wait to show you.”
“Same here. Now, relax,” he whispers.
His fingers begin tracing the sensitive skin of my upper inner thigh. My legs part slightly, instinctively, my body leaning into my need. His touch is slow and perfect, inching toward the heat between my legs. I bite my lip, trying to keep my face neutral as a waiter glides past, oblivious.
Damien’s thumb brushes the edge of my panties, and I stifle a gasp, my slit already slick with want.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. “So wet for me already.”
His finger slips beneath the lace, teasing my folds, circling my clit with a featherlight touch that makes my hips twitch. I grip the edge of the table, nails digging into the cloth, fighting to stay composed as he works me with slow, precise strokes.
“Look at me,” he says. I meet his gaze. “Do you want me to make you come, right here?”
I moan and close my eyes, trying my hardest to hide what’s happening.
“Y–yes.”
He keeps touching me, teasing my clit. “That would be indecent.”
“It would.”
“But you’re not an indecent girl, are you?”
When his finger slides inside me, curling just right, I choke back a moan, my pussy clenching around him.
“Damien,” I whisper, barely audible. My thighs begin trembling as he adds a second finger and pumps slowly, his thumb circling my clit in time.
The din of the restaurant fades until it’s just him, his touch, and the pressure building in my core.
“You’re gonna make me come,” I breathe, voice shaky, pleading.
He stops. The bastard.
“No,” he says, moving his hand out from under the table. “You’re not that indecent. In time. When I want you to be.”
I moan and squirm a bit, wishing he was back inside of me. “You’re a real dick,” I say with a smirk. “You know that?”
“I know. We’ll finish this at home. If you’re good.”
The dessert lands, glossy and indecent in a socially acceptable way. I take the first bite. It’s rich, dark, and perfectly balanced. He watches me taste it, nothing else on his mind but me and the food.
“Good?” he asks.
“Very.”
He takes a bite, surrenders the spoon, and leans back.
“After New Year’s,” he says, practical again, “we’ll build a schedule with her. Three days a week. Morning blocks. No events on those nights. You design. You sleep. You eat.”
I raise my glass. “Look at you, being all soft.”
“I told you,” he says. “Incentive.”
We finish the dessert, the waiter brings the check, and he signs with that clean, precise script of his. The snow falls heavier outside as the trio finishes the song and takes a break.
Damien stands and offers his hand. I take it because I want to, not because I have to. His fingers close around mine, warm and firm.
“Let’s go home,” he says as we turn toward the exit.