Timothy Small
He’s given her the full tour of his place – the restaurant. The pantry.
The foreplay had started at the bar, where he’d lifted her onto the counter, pushed her legs wide as he slid in between, and kissed her. Her hands in his hair, his hands around her waist. She had leaned back and gripped the edge of the counter as he nibbled her neck.
They’d had to stop before they got carried away. Not here, not yet.
Then to the back of the restaurant, to show off the wine cellar.
It was a small, dark room with a glass window and door.
He’d pointed out the vintage, the Chateau Margaux, described its silky, refinement, its blackcurrant finish.
He’d been steady all evening, his hands sure and his voice unhurried.
But in the cellar, when she’d reached past him to touch the label of the bottle, his exhale had been just slightly too slow and deep.
It was a tight space, but room enough for him to push her back to the wall and kiss her passionately, wine bottles rattling, whispered words echoing in the dark.
But not here, not yet.
He wanted to take his time and show her his everything; he needed more space.
And then through to the kitchen, where he’d pointed out the state-of-the-art equipment, the water baths, the Japanese chef knives.
Belle wasn’t focusing on any of that. His hands entranced her, the way his fingers lingered across stainless steel surfaces.
How she couldn’t tell whether the heat was residual from the end of service or radiating from her.
She’d watched, silent, as he pushed aside a crate of vegetables, making space for her in a place that was normally just his. Just to seduce her.
He’d placed her with ease on a cold metal table, opened the top buttons of his shirt while she watched on, a fire behind her eyes. He’d reached between her legs and she’d leaned into him, gasping for more in his ear as he teased.
And now she watches the hard bulge in his pants grow as she unbuckles her jeans and shimmies them down to her ankles.
He kneels in front of her, slowly sliding her shoes from her feet, then pulls her trousers off, placing them neatly to the side.
He plants small kisses up her legs, to her knees and then inside her thigh, before standing up in front of her.
She takes delight in watching his dick harden underneath his trousers until she can tell it’s bursting at his waistband to escape. Small by name, but not by nature, she thinks to herself, biting her lips as she pulls him closer by the hips.
He unbuckles his trousers, and they fall to the floor as he pushes himself into her.
Belle looks at him and he looks back. There’s a stillness as they hold each other there.
She can feel her legs shaking then as he slides in and out, slowly.
The whole of him consuming her. She can’t take it anymore, him standing there, foreheads pressed against each other, her arms around his neck, the cold steel under her arse.
There’s an urgency to them now, their breath speeding up as he quickens his pace, Belle leaning back on her elbows, watching as he fucks her.
Afterwards, he kisses her, fingers tangled up in her locks, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. He pulls his trousers up, disappears, and comes back with a tissue, a bottle of wine, and two glasses.