Chapter 15
Nikolai
My wife walks out of our room in a dress that makes me want to cancel our dinner reservation.
She’s fucking stunning. The soft fabric clings to her tits, hugs her small waist, drapes over her round hips and that thick ass I’ve been obsessed with since day one.
Her dark skin glows against the deep green, the emerald on her finger catching the light.
Her hair’s down, curls falling past her shoulders, and she’s done something with her eyes that makes them look even bigger.
My pregnant wife, wearing my grandmother’s ring and carrying our baby.
My cock’s throbbing in my slacks before she even reaches me.
“Stop staring,” she says, rolling her eyes. But her hard nipples are pushing against the silk. She likes it when I look at her like this.
“Can’t.” I grab her hip and pull her against me, letting her feel exactly what she’s doing to me. “You walk out looking like that and expect me not to stare?”
She presses her palms to my chest. “We have a reservation.”
“I own the fucking place, babe. They’ll wait.”
“You own the…” she blinks. “Of course you do.”
* * *
The restaurant is on the waterfront. Italian. Private. The kind of spot where the city’s most powerful people eat and nobody bothers them.
When we walk in, every head turns. Not because of me.
Because of her. My wife in that green dress, all curves and dark skin and quiet confidence she doesn’t even know she has.
She walks next to me with her hand in mine, and I can see men clock her.
I pull her closer. My hand moves from her hand to the small of her back.
Look too close, and I’ll break every fucking bone in your body.
The ma?tre d’ seats us in the back corner at a private table with dim lighting, in a curved booth.
Zara slides in, and I settle close to her with my thigh pressed against hers under the white tablecloth.
“This is insane,” she murmurs, looking around. “Me, sitting in a place like this in a dress that costs more than my rent.”
“Your old rent.”
She laughs, then picks up the menu, and her eyes go wide. “Nik. There are no prices.”
“You don’t need prices.”
“Everyone needs prices.”
“Baby. I own the place.”
She puts the menu down and gives me a look. “You know what’s annoying about you?”
I grin.
“The fact that you own everything. The restaurant, the penthouse, half the city, probably this tablecloth.” She tugs at the linen.
“I own everything at this table,” I say, and my hand lands on her bare thigh under the cloth. My fingers pressing into the soft, warm skin above her knee. “Including you.”
Her breath hitches. “Nik, we’re in public.”
“I know.” My hand slides higher.
The server appears. He smiles at Zara a beat too long, and I feel my jaw tighten.
“Good evening. Can I start you with…”
“We’ll have the Burrata to start,” I say, not looking at him. My eyes, on Zara. My hand moving under the tablecloth. “Then the truffle pasta. And sparkling water. No alcohol.”
He glances at Zara for confirmation. She opens her mouth to answer, but my fingers find the edge of her panties…
“That sounds perfect,” she manages in a tight voice.
He nods and leaves. And my fingers slip under the lace covering my wife’s pussy.
“Nik,” she whispers. Her hand grabs my wrist under the table. “There are people…”
“There are always people.” My fingers find her slit. She’s already wet. Of course, she is. My girl gets wet when I look at her, when I talk to her, when I breathe in her direction. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”
“No.”
“No?” I push one finger between her folds, finding her clit, and press. She jolts, her knee hitting the underside of the table. The silverware clinks. “That didn’t sound like a no.”
Her thighs part. I rub slow circles on her clit under the tablecloth while she stares straight ahead, trying to hold herself together. Her chest is rising faster, her fingers gripping the edge of the table.
“You’re insane,” she pants.
“Shhh.”
The Burrata arrives. Zara smiles at the server, as I slide two fingers inside her. Her smile freezes. Her nostrils flare. The guy asks if we need anything else, and she just shakes her head jerkily.
When he leaves, she turns to me with murder in her eyes, still breathless. “I’m going to kill you.”
“After you come.” I pump my fingers slow, curling them, finding that spot that makes her legs shake. She grips my forearm with both hands, her nails biting through my suit sleeve. “Eat your food, wife.”
“I can’t eat while you’re…”
“Eat. Your. Food.”
She picks up her fork with a shaking hand and takes a bite. But my fingers don’t stop. I add my thumb to her clit, circling while she chews, swallows, and tries to look like a woman who’s just having dinner instead of one who’s about to come on her husband’s hand.
“How’s the food, baby?” I ask casually.
“I hate you,” she whispers while her pussy clenches around my fingers.
“You fucking love me.”
“I love AND hate you. Both can be true.”
I lean in and brush her ear with my lips. “You’re gonna come for me right here, sweetheart. At this table. In this restaurant. And you’re gonna be quiet about it, or every person in this room is gonna know that Mrs. Maksimov is a dirty girl who lets her husband finger her in public.”
“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, and I feel her walls start to tighten.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go for me. No one can see you.”
I pump faster, my thumb circling her clit, and she leans in, pressing her face into my shoulder.
If anyone is watching, we’re just a PDA kinda couple.
They can’t see my wife’s thighs shaking under the table, feel her pussy gripping my fingers, hear the tiny, broken whimpers she presses into my jacket as she comes.
Zara pulses around my fingers, flooding my hand, her body trembling. And I keep working her through it until she goes limp against me.
“Good girl,” I murmur into her hair.
I slide my fingers out, bring them to my mouth, and suck them clean.
“You’re a psycho,” my wife says weakly, trying to muster a frown despite her glazed eyes.
I chuckle. “And you just came on my fingers in a five-star restaurant. What does that make you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Mrs. Psycho, apparently.”
I kiss her temple, still laughing..
Our pasta arrives. And I’m pleased as fuck that she seems to enjoy it, eating more than I’ve seen her do in days.
“This is incredible,” she says around a mouthful. And when her eyes meet mine, “Nik?”
“Hmm.”
“You’re staring again.”
I just smile, and she smiles back. My wife, with my ring on her finger and my baby in her belly.
In the car, she leans her head on my shoulder and laces her fingers through mine.
“Honey?”
“Yeah.”
“Next time, I’m picking the restaurant.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see you try to keep a straight face when it’s MY hand in YOUR pants.”
I laugh. Hard. The sound filling the car. My wife. My fucking wife.