20. Under the Table
20
UNDER THE TABLE
Rafe
I assess the scene at The West House. Servers are in the kitchen; the bartender mixes a drink. A few other couples linger, and they’re caught up in their own worlds, maybe their own plans for seduction.
But my regular booth affords some privacy, and a tablecloth hangs over the edge of our table.
Just enough risk.
I inch closer to Gunnar and curl a hand tightly around his muscular thigh. His breath hitches, which makes me grin. Gunnar is so responsive. The slightest touch and he lights up.
“I think everything I do arouses you,” I whisper in his ear.
“Gee, I wonder how you figured that out.”
“My astute powers of observation,” I say, chuckling at his sarcasm. He won’t be able to rely on sardonic quips while he’s begging to come.
My hand slides closer to where he wants me. Then, since I’m feeling generous, because he was so open tonight, I dip my face to his neck, and I bite.
He hisses—a sharp, hot sound. He darts his gaze at me then around the room as if checking whether anyone heard him. I soothe the bite with the tip of my tongue along his neck, and my hand edges closer to his throbbing erection. “You’re going to have to be so fucking quiet for what I have planned,” I say in a smoky rasp. Then I shrug. “Or not, depending on your kink.”
“You’re the one telling me what my kink is.”
“I don’t hear you arguing,” I say, flicking my tongue against his earlobe as I squeeze his cock. Then I squeeze harder and bite down on his lobe at the same time.
My reward is a full-body shudder. A staggered breath. His flush of desire.
“I wonder if you can even be quiet,” I muse.
“I can,” he insists. There’s not so much sarcasm now. Just his desire to please me.
In fact, I’d like him to be silent. That’s my kink—setting the scene. “One rule,” I say, my palm moving up and down along the ridge of his erection. “If you make a noise, I’ll stop.”
His throat rumbles, but he’s careful not to let out an accompanying moan. He simply nods his understanding.
Oh, he’s going to be so fun to turn all the way on.
My fingers travel lazily to the button on his jeans, unsnapping it.
He turns his face an inch toward me, awareness fully registering in his eyes. They widen farther as I gently tug down the zipper.
“Are you really doing this?” he whispers.
“Did you want me to stop?” I ask innocently, taking my hand off his erection.
He shakes his head.
“Good. Because I don’t play games when I play games.” Then I shove my hand under the waistband of his boxer briefs—mine, they’re fucking mine, with my name on them—and I squeeze his cock hard.
He throws his head back, a rough grunt escaping his lips, and I stop. “I can’t go on if you’re going to be so noisy,” I say. “What would happen? I might lose my membership. You wouldn’t want that.”
Again, he silently shakes his head.
“Good. Be fucking quiet now,” I instruct.
He swallows, nods obediently. Mouths, I will.
“Of course you will,” I say, my hand returning to his cock. “Because you’ve been getting off to thoughts of me since the night we met. You’ve wanted me to touch you since the dance floor.”
A savage nod is his answer.
I give him more of what he wants, wrapping my fingers more tightly around his shaft. He’s hot and thick, smooth and steely, and he’s pulsing in my hand.
“And I know how much you want me because of this. ” I drag my thumb along the head of his cock, swiping off a drop of arousal. I let go, bring it to his lips.
He parts them as I rub the pad of my thumb along his bottom lip. Then I reward my temporary lover with a hard, deep kiss as I set my palm on his shaft again.
His entire body shakes as I kiss him while I stroke him. He greedily takes my kisses along with the chance to moan and groan into my mouth.
I pick up the pace on his shaft, using his own arousal to ease the path. He grunts, his right hand gripping the edge of the table, his left, scrabbling for a hold on me, finally settling on the waistband of my trousers.
As I stroke him, savoring the feel of his throbbing shaft, I reach into my pocket and take out a tin of lip balm. Letting go of his cock, I smear some onto my hand then return to stroking him with wicked intent.
“You like being watched,” I whisper. “Like when you play baseball. All those eyes on you.” He shudders, and I smile against his ear. “I’m right. Tell me I’m right. You can speak.”
“You’re right,” he says. Or, really, grunts.
My hand flies faster. The feel of his shaft in my fist is incredible. “And it gives you a bigger thrill that I’m going to jack you off right here, under the table, at my private club,” I whisper.
“So much,” he groans, his cock jumping in my hand.
He digs his teeth into his lip as I work him hard. “If I ever fuck you in my home, you can shout, you can growl like an animal. You can call my name.”
His shoulders shake and he nods.
“But right here, don’t say a word,” I tell him. “You’ll do as I require, won’t you, when you shoot all over my hand in a few seconds?”
He nods at rocket speed.
“Good. You’re a fast learner,” I tell him, gripping him tight, my fist a hot tunnel.
He shifts, punching his hips a little under the table, asking for more contact, more speed.
“You want it faster? Harder?”
Another nod.
Both . He wants both.
I give it to him. My fist flies under his briefs, the makeshift lube just enough with his own liquid arousal helping me along. He’s so fucking turned on I can get him over the edge in a few more strokes.
“If we were in my penthouse right now, I’d bite the inside of your thighs. I’d smack your ass. I’d twist your nipples,” I say.
Letting go of my waistband, he slams his fist against his mouth, jamming his knuckles against his teeth.
Well then, I suppose I should help him out. I bring my lips to his gorgeous, lush mouth, peel off his hand, and whisper, “Come.”
I seal my mouth to his and I kiss him wildly, swallowing all his sounds, all his noises while he shudders and spills over my hand.
I’m dizzy with pleasure—the pleasure of making him feel incredible.
This is another first for Gunnar and it belongs to me.
All mine.
Only mine.
The thought shocks me. Where did that come from, that desire to possess him?
Do I want him to be... mine? Mine at night? Or perhaps mine as part of an arrangement . Something with limits.
Once his breathing starts to slow, I reach for a paper napkin and wipe off my hand. I tell him I’ll return after I clean up and then he can do the same.
A few minutes later, we are both back at the table.
Gunnar still looks drunk on lust, but I’m focused on deal-making. As he finishes the last remnant of his meal and I enjoy another drink, I work through exactly how I’m going to make my proposal.