20. Vera #3
I grin and reach under my dress. Hook my fingers in the sides of my underwear, and slide them down inch by inch.
I step out of the burgundy lace, and hold them up. Take a photo — the lace dangling from my fingers, bathroom tile visible in the background, enough to make clear exactly what they are and where I am.
Me: Just seeing how this dress feels without them. The answer is better.
Send.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Stop.
Nothing.
I can picture him at the table. That muscle in his jaw ticking. Hand tight around his wine glass. Fighting for composure in a public restaurant while his submissive sends him photographs of her underwear.
I tuck them into my clutch and reach for my lipstick. Then put it back and switch it for the burgundy one — deeper, darker, the shade that makes a statement. I uncap it and lean toward the mirror.
He wants to be patient. He’s very good at patient.
But I’ve been watching him all evening, watching the Dom just beneath the surface of the suit and the good manners and the dinner conversation, and I want him to stop being so careful.
I want all of it, right here, right now, consequences be damned.
I smooth the color on slowly, watching myself do it. Then I choose to send one more text.
Me: I’ve been thinking about getting on my knees under that table and taking you in my mouth while you try to stay quiet. Would you manage it, Sir? Or would everyone know?
I cap the lipstick and drop it in my clutch, take one last look in the mirror — dark mouth, bright eyes, the look of someone who has made a decision and feels excellent about it.
Still nothing from him.
Good.
I take my time walking back. Unhurried, the way he moves when he wants me to feel every second of his attention.
His eyes find me the moment I clear the doorway — I feel them before I see them — and when I do look, everything is exactly as I imagined.
Jaw tight. Hand wrapped around his glass.
Phone face-down beside his plate. The expression on his face pulls tight low in my stomach.
I slide back into my seat, all innocence.
“Everything okay?” I ask sweetly. “You look tense.”
“You’re going to regret this.”
“I’m counting on it.” I pick up my fork and take a bite of tiramisu. Let my tongue catch a bit of cream, and watch his eyes track the movement.
His hand closes into a fist on the table.
“So sweet,” I say.
“Don’t.” His voice is low. Strained.
“I can’t help it if this makes me think about other things I’d rather be licking right now.”
His jaw works.
I take another bite, and hold his gaze while I do.
He raises his hand and signals for the check without breaking eye contact.
“Finish your dessert.” Pure Dom now, every trace of the dinner companion gone.
“Every bite. Take your time.” He leans forward slightly.
“Because the moment we leave this restaurant, there are no more warnings. No more chances to back down. You’re going to get exactly what you’ve been asking for. Every last bit of it.”
My stomach tightens. “Good.” I take another bite. Slow. “That’s what I want, Sir.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s the problem.”
By the time the check arrives Kane has gone very still. He signs without glancing at the amount, stands, and offers me his hand. When I take it his grip is firm and immediate — not a gesture. A statement.
“Let’s go.”
Not a request.
I take his hand and let him pull me up, and feel it immediately — the current running right through his palm into mine, barely leashed, every bit of the dinner distilled into the pressure of his grip.
The walk to the car is silent. He opens my door, closes it, walks around. When he gets in he doesn’t start the engine. Just sits, hands on the wheel, breathing.
He’s gone quiet the way he does when a decision’s already made and all that’s left is executing it.
He turns and looks at me. The gentleman is completely gone.
“You like pushing your Dom.” His voice is low, controlled. “Seeing exactly how far you can go.”
I hold his gaze and let him see the answer.
He faces forward and starts the car.
The drive takes fifteen minutes. Rain-slicked streets, the city blurring past the windows.
His hand is white-knuckled on the wheel.
Mine is clenched in my lap. Neither of us speaks.
Every red light is its own small torture.
The silence has weight and texture and I sit inside it and feel my pulse in my throat.
When we pull into the garage he parks, kills the engine, and is out of the car and at my door before I’ve reached for the handle.
His hand finds the small of my back the moment I’m standing. Guiding me inside. The elevator. The floors ticking past in silence. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.
The doors open.
He guides me through the apartment without turning on a light, straight to the locked door.
He pushes in the code and amber light spills out, warm and low, and I feel it the way I always feel it — like a held breath finally released.
He steps aside.
I walk through.
Behind me, the lock clicks shut.