Chapter 8: The First Claim
The maître d' at La Pergola actually stumbled when he turned to greet them, his practiced smile faltering as his eyes traveled from Bianca's face down the plunging neckline of her red dress, lingering on the exposed column of her throat framed by that black silk choker. He caught himself, cleared his throat, and gestured toward the terrace with a slightly trembling hand.
Ethan watched it happen and felt a strange cocktail of pride and possessiveness bloom in his chest. He'd dressed up for her, black slacks and a blue button-up he'd ironed twice, but he might as well have been wearing a burlap sack next to her. Bianca was a goddamn vision, her wavy black hair cascading over bare shoulders, the dress hugging every curve, the slit on the right side flashing her long, muscled leg with every step. He could see the edge of her black thong when the fabric parted, just a whisper of darkness against her tan skin, and his mouth went dry.
She squeezed his arm, reading his thoughts. "You're staring, baby."
"Can you blame me?" His voice came out rough. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
Bianca laughed, that low, throaty sound that sent heat straight to his cock. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "Wait until I get you home. I'll show you exactly what this dress is hiding."
The maître d' led them across the terrace, weaving between marble tables where candlelight flickered and jasmine-scented air hung thick and sweet. Every man they passed turned to watch her. Their dates noticed, too, some with irritation, others with frank, appraising looks that made Ethan's jaw tighten. Bianca seemed to absorb the attention like sunlight, walking taller, her hips swaying with a deliberate, hypnotic rhythm. She didn't acknowledge any of them. Her hand stayed locked on Ethan's arm, her thumb tracing slow circles on his forearm as if to say, I'm yours. They're just looking. You're the one taking me home tonight.
The maître d' stopped at a table positioned at the terrace's edge, a marble circle draped in cream linen where a single pillar candle flickered between two crystal glasses. The city sprawled below them like a bed of scattered diamonds, the distant hum of traffic a soft murmur beneath the rustle of jasmine-laden breeze.
"This is perfect," Bianca murmured, and she turned to Ethan, her eyes catching the candlelight, turning them to pools of warm honey.
Ethan pulled out her chair with a gallant little bow, and Bianca laughed, that sound he'd come to crave, as she settled into it. The dress rode up another inch as she crossed her legs, and his breath caught at the flash of smooth thigh. The waiter appeared as if summoned, a man in his forties with a careful combover and a nametag that read DIEGO. He fumbled the wine list, sending it scattering across the marble floor, and when he bent to retrieve it, his greedy gaze lingered on Bianca's exposed thigh, the smooth skin glistening under the candlelight. She didn't move, didn't flinch, just watched him with a knowing smirk as he squatted there, his face level with her legs, his eyes tracing the curve from her knee up to where the dress ended at her hip. The waiter's breath hitched, his movements becoming clumsy as he struggled to collect the scattered papers, his knuckles brushing against her ankle as he reached for the last page that had fallen perilously close to her stiletto. Bianca shifted slightly in her chair, giving him an even better view, enjoying the power she held in that simple, deliberate movement.Ethan watched the man's Adam's apple bob.
"Two glasses of the Barolo, and," Bianca glanced at the menu only briefly, "I'll have the burrata to start, and the pappardelle with wild boar. He'll have the same."
Diego's pen scratched against the pad, his hand unsteady. "Ex-excellent choice, madam. And you, sir, the wine?" He couldn't quite meet Ethan's eyes, instead looking over Ethan's shoulder as if there were something compelling in the middle distance.
Ethan felt a slow smile spread across his face. "She just told you. Two glasses of the Barolo."
"Of course, of course." Diego retreated with a slightly comical haste, nearly clipping a passing busboy's tray.
Bianca watched him go, then turned to Ethan, her chin resting on her linked fingers, elbows propped on the table. "Did you see that?"
"I saw it." Ethan leaned forward, matching her posture. "I think the man's forgotten his entire professional career."
"He was staring at my legs the whole time." She said it with delight, not accusation, and the word tits on her lips, in her smoky voice, sent blood racing to Ethan's prick. The tablecloth hid his body's reaction, but Bianca knew. She always knew. Her foot nudged his calf under the table, bare skin against the fabric of his slacks.
"Nervous?" she asked softly.
He swallowed. "Not nervous. I'm just very aware that I'm the envy of every man within a hundred meters."
"You are, aren't you?" Bianca's smile softened into something more private, more genuine, and the bravado in her eased away. "Ethan." She reached across the table, and her fingers laced through his, warm and grounding. "You look so handsome tonight. I knew you'd clean up nice, but the way you fill out that shirt? I had to restrain myself in the car."
Warmth spread through his chest, a lovely warmth that had nothing to do with the candle and everything to do with the way she was looking at him. "I was going to say the same about you, but I already did. You're driving me insane, Bianca."
"Good." She squeezed his hand and withdrew, reaching for the water glass, taking a delicate sip. "That's my goal. Keep you off-balance all night, then reel you in."
"You don't need to work hard at it. I've been reeled in since the moment you danced with me."
Bianca's eyes softened, and she set down her glass. "Let's not talk about that yet. Tonight is just us, okay? No club, no other girls, no games. Just you and me and this ridiculous rooftop."
The barolo arrived, Diego pouring with a trembling hand, apologizing when a drop splashed onto the linen. He vanished again, and Bianca lifted her glass, watching the dark red liquid swirl in the candlelight. "To us," she said.
Ethan clinked his glass against hers. "To us."
The wine was smooth and warm, tasting of cherries and leather, and Bianca's eyes never left his as she drank. They talked about nothing at first, the easy silliness of new lovers, about the tattoo of a koi fish she wanted on her hip, about the new campaign his design studio had snagged with a boutique coffee brand. She asked him about his childhood, his family, and he told her about his Wisconsin hometown, the ice-fishing trips with his father, the summer he'd worked at a dairy farm and learned to hate the smell of hay. She leaned in, elbow on the table, chin in hand, and drank his words like wine.
"What about you?" he asked, eventually. "What's the Bianca story?"
She took a long sip of her wine, considering. "Born in Baton Rouge. Moved to New York at eighteen with four hundred dollars and a dream. Lived in a closet, literally, for six months in Queens while I waited tables. Did the whole transition, the hormones, the surgeries. Some of them I don't talk about, not yet. But I built myself, Ethan. Every inch of this body, I chose. Every scar, I earned." She tapped her collarbone, her smile wry. "A lot of cis women would kill for these shoulders. I had to grow them myself."
The burrata arrived, creamy and swollen on a bed of heirloom tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and cracked pepper. They served each other bites, feeding one another with silver forks, and Diego reappeared to top off their glasses, witness to this new intimacy. When the pappardelle came, the boar ragù rich and earthy, they ate in comfortable silence, their legs intertwined beneath the table.
At some point, as the wine took hold, Ethan noticed the way Bianca's eyes drifted over his shoulder. He turned to follow her gaze and found the table behind them; a couple in their fifties, the man in an expensive suit, his wife in a tasteful black sheath. Neither looked their way. But at the table to the left, a younger man, maybe thirty, in a fitted grey blazer, was staring at Bianca with his fork frozen halfway to his mouth, a ribbon of pappardelle dangling. His date, a blonde in a salmon-colored dress, was looking at him, clearly annoyed.
Ethan turned back to Bianca, raising an eyebrow.
"Watch this," she whispered, and mischief danced in her eyes.
She slowly uncrossed her left leg from over her right, the movement languid, deliberate. Her foot slipped down the inside of his calf as she extended it beneath the table, the slit in her dress parting to reveal the long, honed line of her quadricep, the luminous skin of her inner thigh, up, up, until the edge of the black thong came into view, a whisper of fabric against the sharp jut of her hip. She paused there, holding the position, letting the candlelight toy with her exposed leg. Then she drew up her right leg, crossing it over her left, and the dress gave way completely, sliding back to bare her entire leg from ankle to the very top of her hip. The black strap of her thong cut across her hip, a deliberate, tantalizing arrow pointing at everything hidden beneath the fabric.
Ethan stopped breathing.
Around them, a subtle shift. Utensils paused. Conversations faltered. The man in the grey blazer had abandoned all pretense, his mouth actually hanging open, his date glaring at him with a mixture of outright jealousy and hurt. The older gentleman at the other table had gone still, his eyes fixed on the exposed terrain of Bianca's leg, his wife's hand visibly squeezing his forearm beneath their table.
Bianca let the moment stretch, a smile curving her lips. Then she lowered her leg, rearranged her dress with a casual toss of her hair, and leaned forward, conspiratorial.
"You see that, baby?" Bianca's voice dropped to a husky murmur, her eyes never leaving his. "They can look all they want. Every man at this table, every man in this city. They can watch me, dream about me, jerk off to the memory of me. But I only belong to you." She leaned across the candle, her hand finding the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. "This body? It's yours. Every inch of it. Every scar, every secret. Do you understand that, Ethan?"
"Yes," he breathed.
"Good." She pulled him into the kiss.
It wasn't gentle. It was a claiming, a declaration, her lips parting against his, her tongue sliding in hot and demanding. He tasted the Barolo on her, the rich fruit and spice, and something deeper, something that was just her, that musky, warm flavor he'd come to associate with pleasure and surrender. Her fingers tightened in his hair, holding him in place as she explored his mouth with a leisure that made his cock throb against his slacks. He heard a fork clatter somewhere behind them, a muffled gasp, and didn't care.
The kiss broke slowly, reluctantly, Bianca's lips trailing across his jaw before she pulled back, her eyes half-lidded and dark. Her thumb swept across his lower lip, wiping away a glistening trace of her, and she smiled, a predator's smile, all teeth and promise.
"Your face is flushed," she murmured, settling back in her chair. She reached for her wine, taking a sip that was almost a celebration. "I like that. Knowing I did that to you, right here, in front of all these people."
Ethan's heart hammered against his ribs. He could feel the hard ache of his cock pressing against the seam of his slacks, and he shifted, trying to find some relief in the damnable chair. Bianca watched him adjust, her eyes tracking the movement, and the corner of her mouth twitched.
"Patience, baby," she said, drawing the word out. "Dessert first."
The pappardelle was gone, the plates cleared, and Diego materialized at the table's edge with two small spoons and a single plate. On it rested a perfect dome of tiramisu, dusted with cocoa, a single sprig of mint crowning the top. The coffee and mascarpone scent drifted up, warm and sweet.
"I took the liberty," Diego said, his voice still carrying a hint of a tremor. "The chef's recommendation. We serve it with a vintage vin santo, if you'd like."
Bianca waved him off, her attention fixed on the dessert. "No, this is perfect. Thank you, Diego."
He retreated, and Bianca picked up one of the spoons. She carved a neat wedge of the tiramisu, gathering cream and cocoa and a dark crumb of ladyfinger soaked in espresso, and lifted it toward Ethan's mouth.
"Open," she said, and it wasn't a request.
He opened. The dessert melted on his tongue, the bitterness of the coffee cut by the sweet mascarpone, the whole thing dissolving into a velvet of cream and sugar. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it, and when he opened them, Bianca was watching him with an intensity that made the air feel thick.
"Good?" she asked.
"God, yes."
She fed him another bite, and then another, each one accompanied by a brush of her fingers as she steadied the spoon against his lips. The intimacy of it, the deliberate slowness, made his skin prickle with heat. She was feeding him like a ritual, like a promise, and every bite tasted of her.
Then she took a bite herself, and a smear of cocoa clung to the corner of her lower lip. She licked it off with a slow, pink sweep of her tongue, and Ethan felt his mouth go dry.
"You're so good to me," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I feel so safe with you."
He squeezed her hand, his heart swelling with affection. "I want to take care of you, Bianca. In every way that matters."
Her thumb stroked his knuckles, sending warmth through his entire body.
"You already do," she whispered, her eyes glistening. "You make me feel beautiful. Truly beautiful, not just pretty to look at."
"Because you are," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Inside and out. I've never cared about anyone like I care about you."
She leaned forward, her breath warm against his cheek. "I'm falling for you, Ethan. Hard."
"I've already fallen," he replied, reaching up to cup her face. "And I never want to get up."
Her fingers tightened around his, and for a long moment, they just held each other across the candlelight, the city glittering below them, the jasmine-scented air wrapping around them like a shroud. The tiramisu sat half-finished between them, forgotten.
Finally, Bianca let out a breath. "We should go." Her voice was low, almost shy. "I want to take you home, Ethan. I want to take you to my bed."
His cock throbbed, a pulse of pure need. "Then let's go."
She smiled, that lazy, devastating smile, and pushed back her chair. The maître d' appeared as if summoned, the bill presented on a small silver tray. Ethan reached for his wallet, but Bianca's hand covered his, warm and firm.
"I've got this," she said.
"You don't have to—"
"Ethan." She looked at him, and there was something final in her tone, something gentle but immovable. "I'm taking care of you tonight. Let me."
He let her. He watched her sign the receipt with a fluid, elegant flourish, watched the way the candlelight played over the delicate bones of her wrist, and felt something shift in his chest, a deepening, a settling. She was taking care of him. She had been, from the very first moment she'd danced with him, and he was learning, slowly, what that meant.
She rose from her chair, and Ethan was already standing, his hand extended to her. She took it, her fingers twining through his, warm and sure, and he helped her up. As she straightened, the red dress shifted, falling back into place around her hips, and she stepped close, her body brushing against his, the scent of her, jasmine and wine and something muskier, filling his head.
"Ready?" she whispered, her lips nearly touching his ear.
"More than ready."
She kept his hand as they crossed the terrace, and the other diners watched them pass, the man in the grey blazer with his mouth half open, the older gentleman with an unreadable expression. Ethan barely saw them. All he could see was Bianca, the way her spine curved, the way her hair swayed with each step, the way her fingers held his as if she'd never let go.
Diego met them at the vestibule, holding Bianca's wrap, a soft cashmere shawl in charcoal grey. She accepted it with a murmur of thanks, draping it over her shoulders without letting go of Ethan's hand. Diego's eyes lingered on her neckline one last time, a study in longing, and then he bowed his head and stepped back.
"Have a good evening, madam. Sir."
"We will," Bianca said, and there was no mistaking the promise in her voice.
The elevator descended in silence, the glass walls revealing a slow panorama of city lights. Bianca leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, her hand still in his. He could feel the heat of her body through the thin silk of her dress, the outline of her hip against his thigh, and his cock was a dull, insistent ache.
"Tell me what you're thinking," she said, the words muffled against the fabric of his shirt.
"I'm thinking about tonight," he said. "About getting you out of this dress. About touching you. Everywhere."
She made a small sound, a hum of approval. "That's good. Because I've been thinking about it since the gym. Since you told me what you wanted."
The elevator opened onto the lobby, a cavernous space of polished marble and a single, enormous crystal chandelier. The doorman, an older Black man with a neat grey mustache, touched his cap as they passed.
"Good evening, Ms. Campbell."
"Evening, Marcus."
The night air hit them as Marcus held the door, cool and carrying the last trace of city warmth, the smell of exhaust and wet pavement and the distant, faint sweetness of a food cart. Bianca's apartment was only a few blocks away, a long, tree-lined walk past brownstones and boutique storefronts, and they took it slowly, their steps synchronized, her arm wrapped through his.
The streetlights painted her skin in honeyed gold, and every few steps she turned to look at him, a small, private smile on her lips. The anticipation between them was a living thing, a taut wire that hummed with every brush of their bodies, every whisper of her dress against his slacks.
"Remember the first time we met?" she asked. "On that dance floor. You looked so lost, Ethan. Like a deer in headlights."
"I was lost," he admitted. "I'd never been anywhere like Eden. Never met anyone like you."
"And now?" She stopped walking, turning to face him fully. The streetlight caught her profile, the proud line of her nose, the full curve of her lips. "Are you still lost?"
He shook his head. "I found something. I found you."
Her smile, when it came, was soft, almost vulnerable. She reached up and cupped his face, her palm warm against his cheek, and kissed him, gentle this time, sweet, a long, slow press of lips that tasted of Barolo and mascarpone and forever. He let his eyes close and breathed her in, and for one perfect moment, the city around them melted away, leaving only her, only this.
She pulled back, her thumb stroking his cheekbone. "Come on. The sooner we get inside, the sooner I can get inside." she says to him as she looks at him hungrily, grinning excitedly.
The words hit him like a physical blow, heat flooding his groin. He was already hard, straining against his slacks, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that this was the moment everything would change.
The key to the apartment was already in Bianca's hand before they reached the door, a small brass key that she turned in the lock with a soft click. The door swung open onto darkness, and she stepped inside, pulling him by the hand, the scent of her apartment washing over him as the door clicked shut behind them. Vanilla and sandalwood, a hint of the candles she burned at night, and underneath it, the clean, warm smell of her, the one that lived in the sheets of her bed and on the collar of the shirts she left draped over chairs.
She dropped his hand and let out a long, exhausted sigh, reaching down to work the strap of her right stiletto. The heel came away with a soft pop, and she groaned, a sound of pure, unvarnished relief, flexing her foot against the hardwood. The left followed, and she stood there in her bare feet, arching her back, the movement making the red dress strain across her chest.
"God," she breathed, rolling her ankles. "Heels are torture. Pure, beautiful torture."
Ethan stepped closer, the air between them thick with the promise of what they'd been building all night. "You okay?"
She laughed, that low, throaty sound that vibrated somewhere in his chest. "Oh, I'm fine. Heels might be torture, but they make my legs and ass look amazing. You should see the view from behind."
He slid his left hand down the curve of her hip, finding the slit in the red dress where the fabric parted like a curtain. His fingers slipped through the gap, brushing across the bare skin of her outer thigh, the muscle firm and warm beneath his palm. At the same time, his right hand slid across her stomach, the silk of the dress sleek and cool, around the sharp jut of her left hip, and found the ample, muscled swell of her ass. He grabbed a handful, squeezing, pulling her into him, the heat of her body flooding through the thin silk of his shirt.
"Your legs and ass look fucking incredible no matter what you're wearing," he whispered, his voice rough with desire. Bianca melted into his touch, a soft whimper escaping her lips as she felt his possessive grip on her body.
She loved the way he moved her, pulled her up onto her toes, his strength pulling her exactly where he wanted her, his dominance making her wetter with each passing second. The raw power in his hands as he claimed her curves sent shivers down her spine, her own hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palms.
His grip tightened on both cheeks, fingers digging into the firm, warm flesh as he hauled her up onto her toes. The motion pressed her body flush against his, the soft give of her breasts against his chest, the sharp jut of her hip bones against his waist. She let out a gasp, a small, surprised sound that parted her lips, and he was there, taking her mouth before she could recover.
The kiss was deep, demanding, his tongue sliding against hers with the kind of deliberate, unhurried confidence that made her knees go weak. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails scraping the fabric of his shirt, and tried to match his pace, but he was in control, setting the tempo, pulling her deeper into the kiss with every stroke of his tongue. She tasted of wine and tiramisu, sweet and dark, and beneath that, the faint, warm salt of her skin, the flavor he'd become addicted to. He drank her in, one hand sliding up from her ass to splay across her lower back, pressing her hips into his, letting her feel the hard length of him straining against his slacks.
And then, just as she was melting into him, surrendering to the rhythm, he pulled his mouth away.
Bianca made a sound, a soft, needy whine, and leaned forward, chasing his mouth. He dodged, tilting his head, letting her lips brush the corner of his jaw instead. She turned, tried again, and he evaded once more, his teeth catching her lower lip for just a fraction of a second, a tease, a promise, before he pulled back again.
"Ethan," she breathed, her voice ragged, her hips grinding against him of their own accord. "Stop teasing me."
He didn't. He flicked his tongue across her lips, a quick, wet stroke that tasted of her lip gloss, something sweet and floral, and her mouth opened to accept him, but he was already gone, tracing a line of kisses down her jaw instead, slow and deliberate, until he reached the hollow of her throat. She tilted her head back, offering herself to him, her pulse fluttering under his tongue, and he let his teeth graze the sensitive skin there, feeling her shiver.
His hands kneaded and massaged her ass, his right fingers digging into the firm, yielding flesh through the thin silk of the dress, while his left fingers had found their way to the bare skin of her ass through the slit of her dress, his fingers digging into the warm, soft, yielding flesh there. She moaned, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against his lips, and arched her back, pressing her breasts against his chest. He could feel the stiff peaks of her nipples through the fabric, two hard little points that grazed his ribcage with every breath she took.
His left hand obeyed the unspoken demand, fingers sliding deeper into the cleft of her ass, before gripping her and spreading the firm, warm cheek just enough to feel the delicate resistance of muscle and skin pull taut. The black thong was a thin strip of silk against his knuckles, barely able to contain her prodigious, heavy cock and balls, and beyond it, the tight, sensitive pucker of her asshole, smooth and warm under his grazing touch. Bianca gasped, a sharp, startled sound that broke against his mouth, and arched into him, her hips grinding against his, her entire body going rigid with pleasure.
His fingers grazed the tight, sensitive furl of her asshole, and Bianca's entire body seized. A shudder rippled through her like a current, her hips bucking involuntarily against his hand, a choked sound escaping her throat, half gasp, half whimper. The silk of her thong was damp now, clinging to the heavy swell of her cock, the heat of her trapped against the thin fabric.
"Ethan," she breathed, her voice fractured, barely a whisper. "Fuck, baby, please."
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he traced the ring of muscle with the pad of his index finger, a slow, deliberate circle that made her knees buckle. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging through the fabric of his shirt, and he felt the tremor run through her entire body. The scent of her arousal was thick in the air now, musky and sweet, cutting through the vanilla and sandalwood of the apartment.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, and what he saw made his cock ache with a fierce, possessive hunger. Her eyes were glassy, her lips parted and swollen from his kisses, her chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. The black choker at her throat seemed tighter somehow, framing the pulse that fluttered visibly in the hollow beneath her jaw. She was utterly undone, trembling in his hands, and she was his. All of it, every inch, every shudder, every desperate little sound she made, it was all his.
"You know what I've been thinking about all night?" he asked, his voice low and rough, his fingers still stroking the sensitive skin between her ass and the base of her cock, teasing but not quite touching what she was desperate for him to touch.
She shook her head, mute, her eyes fixed on his.
"I've been thinking about getting you out of this dress." He hooked a finger under the strap of her thong, pulling it out and letting it snap back against her hip with a soft sound. "About seeing you. All of you. That gorgeous cock of yours, the one that's been driving me crazy all night, the one I can feel pressing against me even now."
He leaned in and caught her lower lip between his teeth, a sharp bite that made her gasp, and then soothed it with a slow, languid lick.
"I've been thinking about how you're going to feel when you slide into me," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper against her mouth. "That first moment, the very first inch, when you're stretching me open, when I feel you pushing inside me, filling me up. I want to watch your face when you feel that, Bianca. I want to see your eyes roll back in your head when you realize you're inside me, that you're taking me, that you're owning me."
She whimpered, a small, desperate sound that vibrated against his lips. Her hips ground against his, her cock a hard, insistent pressure against his thigh, and he felt the dampness of her through the silk of her thong.
"I want to feel you moving inside me," he went on, punctuating each word with a bite or a lick against her neck, her jaw, the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Slow at first, teasing, making me feel every inch of you as you pull out and push back in. Then faster. Harder. I want you to fuck me, Bianca. I want you to use me. I want to feel your balls slapping against my ass as you take what's yours."
She made a sound, something between a moan and a sob, and her fingers twisted in his shirt. Her legs were shaking, barely holding her up, and he could feel the heat radiating off her skin, the dampness of her arousal soaking through the front of her dress.
"I want to taste you," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I want to get on my knees for you and take you in my mouth, feel you hitting the back of my throat, feel you throbbing against my tongue. I want to swallow every drop of you, Bianca. I want to taste you cumming."
"Ethan, please," she begged, her voice raw and broken. "Please, baby, I need you. I need to be inside you. I need to feel what that's like, to be deep in your heat, stretching you open, claiming every inch of your tight little body."
He pulled back, meeting her eyes, and saw the desperate, aching need there. She was trembling, her chest heaving, and he could see the faint glisten of sweat at her temples. She loved this. She loved him taking control, loved the way he was destroying her with words, loved the fact that this sweet, innocent boy she'd found on a dance floor was now whispering filthy promises in her ear with such devastating confidence.
"Bianca." Her name came out as a growl, rough and possessive. "I can feel you. Right through this dress. That big, beautiful cock of yours is pressing right into me."
She shuddered in his arms, her hips rolling instinctively, grinding the hard length of her against his thigh. Through the thin silk of her dress, he could feel every inch of her, the rigid shaft, the thick, heavy weight of her balls, constrained by her thong and dress pressing on them beneath the fabric. His mouth went dry at the sensation.
"You're so hard for me," he breathed, his fingers digging into the firm flesh of her ass through the slit in her dress. "You've been hard all night, haven't you? Sitting across from me at that restaurant, feeding me tiramisu while your cock was straining against your panties. Tell me, Bianca. Tell me how much you want this."
"Yes," she gasped, her head falling back, exposing the long, elegant column of her throat. "Yes, baby, I've been so hard for you. All night. Every time you looked at me, every time you smiled, I could feel myself getting wetter, harder. I wanted to pull you under the table and slide this cock into your mouth right there in front of everyone."
The image hit him like a lightning bolt to the spine, a jolt of pure, electric heat that sizzled from the base of his skull all the way down to his throbbing cock. A restaurant full of strangers, candlelight flickering on silverware, the murmur of conversation and clinking glasses, and there he'd be, on his knees beneath the tablecloth, hidden in the dark, the scent of her musk filling his nostrils as he worked her beautiful cock down his throat. The danger of it, the filth of it, the sheer audacity of servicing her in front of all those people, it made something primal and dark twist in his gut. He wanted it. He *ached* for it.
A growl rumbled up from his chest, animalistic and raw. His hand, the one still buried in the slit of her dress, drew back and came down on the firm, muscled swell of her ass with a sharp, echoing *crack* that made her yelp, her body jerking against his. The sting of the impact vibrated through his palm.
His mouth was at her ear in the same instant, his breath hot and ragged. "The next time a thought like that runs through that pretty, little head of yours," he rasped, the words a low, dangerous growl, "you better fucking see it through. You hear me, baby? You better grab me by the hair, shove me under that table, and make me choke on you, because that sounds like the hottest fucking thing I've ever heard in my goddamn life."
He pulled back just enough to catch her eye, his gaze burning into hers. "We're going to do that. I don't know when, I don't know where, but we're fucking going to do that."
Her eyes were wide, pupils blown black with shock and a desperate, aching hunger. Her lips parted on a shaky breath, but before she could speak, he lunged forward again. He caught the thick, meaty curve of her shoulder where it met the straining strap of her dress, and he bit down. Hard. The sharp edges of his teeth sank into the warm, taut flesh, tasting the faint salt of her skin, the lingering sweetness of her perfume, a flavor that was uniquely, addictively *her*. She cried out, a sharp, startled sound that was half pain, half pure, wild pleasure, and her body arched into him, her nails scraping down the back of his shirt.
He held the bite, grinding his teeth into the flesh, feeling her shiver and tremble against him, feeling her pulse hammering under his tongue. Then he released, dragging his mouth across the red, indented mark, tasting the faint metallic tang of blood just beneath the surface. He lapped at it, soothing the sting, before he pulled back and met her gaze again.
"That's what I want," he snarled, his voice ragged, barely a human sound. "It would have been so fucking hot to be under that table. In front of everyone. Surrounded by all those people eating their fancy dinners, not knowing I'm down there on my knees, taking your big, beautiful cock down my throat like the little cock whore that I am. People just casually sipping their wine, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm down there, owned by you. Addicted to you." He let the words sink in, watched them land in her eyes like stones in a still pond. "Your cock. In my mouth. In front of all of them."
A low, shuddering moan escaped her, and her hips bucked against his, grinding the hard, leaking length of her against his thigh. He could feel the damp heat of her pre-cum soaking through the silk of her dress, a wet spot spreading over his leg.
A growl rumbled up from Ethan's chest, raw and possessive as he drank in the sight of her trembling against him. The damp heat of her pre-cum soaked through the silk of her dress where she pressed against his thigh, a wet, spreading warmth that he could feel even through the layers of fabric. He tightened his grip on her ass, his fingers digging into the firm, yielding flesh, feeling the subtle tremor that ran through her entire body.
"Tell me, baby," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. He caught the thick, meaty curve of her shoulder where it met the straining strap of her dress and bit down again, sinking his teeth into the warm, taut flesh with a savage hunger. The salt of her skin flooded his tongue, mixed with the faint, floral sweetness of her perfume, and underneath, that unique, musky warmth that was purely her. She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that was half agony, half ecstasy, her body convulsing against him, her nails raking down his back through his shirt.
He held the bite, grinding his teeth into the indentation he'd made, feeling her pulse hammering frantically beneath his tongue. Then he released, dragging his lips across the red, bruised mark, tasting the faint metallic tang of blood just beneath the surface. He soothed it with a long, slow lick that made her shudder.
"Tell me," he repeated, his lips brushing against the wounded skin. "Tell me what you plan to do with that big, beautiful cock tonight. And I want every filthy detail."
Bianca's breath came in short, ragged gasps. Her head was thrown back, exposing the elegant column of her throat, the black choker straining against the frantic pulse that beat visibly beneath her jaw. Her hips ground against his involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking relief.
"Baby," she panted, her voice fractured. "I've been thinking about it all night. What I want to do to you."
"Tell me." He bit down on her shoulder once more, a sharp, claiming bite that made her sob, and her body arched into him, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.
"I want to take you to my bed," she gasped, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I want to lay you down, peel those slacks off you, and touch you everywhere. I want to taste you first, baby. I want to get my mouth on you, feel you getting hard against my tongue."
Her hips rolled against his, and he felt the hard, thick length of her pressing against his thigh, constrained by the thong and the damp silk of her dress. The heat radiating from her was intense, a furnace burning beneath the fabric, and he could smell her arousal, that sweet, musky scent now thick and undeniable in the air between them.
"I want to look at you," she continued, her voice growing bolder even as it trembled. "I want to see all of you, spread out on my sheets. I want you to watch me lube up my fingers, baby. I want you to see me preparing you, opening you up, getting you ready for me."
Ethan's cock throbbed painfully against his slacks, a dull, insistent ache that demanded relief. He grabbed another handful of her ass, squeezing, pulling her hips flush against his, letting her feel the hard length of him straining against the fabric.
"And then what?" he growled his teeth grazing the fresh bite mark on her shoulder.
"And then I'm going to slide my cock into you," she breathed, and the words sent a jolt of pure electricity through him. "Slowly, baby. So fucking slowly. I'm going to feel every inch of you opening up around me, stretching to take me. I'm going to watch your face when I push inside you for the first time, watch your eyes roll back in your head when you feel me filling you up."
Her fingers found his hair, threading through the sandy blonde strands, pulling his head back so she could meet his gaze. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown black with hunger, her lips parted and slick.
"I'm going to fuck you, Ethan," she said, her voice low and trembling with barely contained need. "I'm going to fuck you slow at first, make you feel every inch of me as I pull out and push back in. I'm going to listen to you moan for me, beg me for more, and I'm going to give it to you. Faster. Harder. I'm going to feel my balls slapping against your ass, feel you tightening around me, feel you losing control."
The words painted vivid pictures in his mind, each one more explicit than the last, and he felt himself sinking deeper into a warm, desperate haze of want. The taste of her skin was still on his tongue, salt and sweetness and her, and he wanted more.
"I'm going to make you cum for me, baby," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm going to feel you pulsing around my cock, feel you clenching down on me, and I'm going to fill you up. I want to feel myself painting your insides, claiming you from the inside out. I want you to carry my cum inside you all night and know that you're mine."
She gasped, her entire body trembling, her words dissolving into a broken moan as he bit down on the curve of her neck, right where it met her shoulder. She tasted amazing, a heady mix of sweat and perfume and that underlying musk that drove him insane. He suckled at the skin, drawing blood to the surface, marking her.
"That's what you want, baby?" she panted, her voice ragged. "You want me to use that cock to fuck you? To take you? To own you?"
"Yes," Ethan rasped, the word barely a sound at all, more a vibration of pure need that he felt in his chest, in his throat, in the aching hardness straining against his slacks. "Yes, that's exactly what I want. I want you to use that cock to fuck me. To take me. To own me, baby. Every inch of me. Every part of me. Yours."
The admission hung in the air between them, thick and electric, and he watched the effect it had on her. Her pupils dilated further, swallowing the warm brown of her irises until they were twin pools of black hunger. Her lips parted on a shaky exhale, and he could smell her arousal spiking, that sweet, musky scent intensifying until it was almost overwhelming in the close darkness of the entryway.
But he wasn't done. The questions were building in him, a desperate need not just for the act itself, but for her words, for her voice painted with the filthy promises of what was to come. He wanted to hear her say it, all of it, every detail, every sensation, so that his mind could play the images behind his eyelids until the moment she made them real.
"What are you going to do to me, baby?" he asked, his voice a low, rough scrape. His hand, still buried in the slit of her dress, shifted, his fingers finding the damp silk of her thong where it strained against the thick, heavy length of her cock. He traced the outline of her through the fabric, feeling the heat of her, the rigid shaft, the slight slickness of pre-cum soaking through. She gasped, her hips jerking forward, trying to grind against his hand, but he tightened his grip on her ass, holding her still, forcing her to submit to his pace.
"Tell me," he insisted, his fingers stroking the length of her through the silk, slow and deliberate. "Tell me exactly what you're going to do to me. How you're going to do it. I need to hear it, baby. I need to hear every filthy detail."
She shuddered in his arms, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The struggle was visible in every line of her body, the desperate need to move, to grind, to find relief, warring with her equally desperate need to obey him, to give him what he was asking for, to paint the picture with her words.
"I'm going to take you to my bed," she began, her voice low and trembling. "And then," she breathed, and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if she were picturing it, living it in her mind. "I'm going to open you up. I'm going to slide one finger inside you, feel how tight you are, feel your warmth clenching around me. You're going to be so tight, baby. So fucking tight. I'm going to have to work to get you ready for me, work you open with my fingers, maybe two, maybe three, until you're loosened up, desperate and begging for me."
The image hit him like a physical blow, his own cock throbbing painfully against the confines of his slacks. He could almost feel it, the slow stretch of Bianca's fingers inside him, the burn and the pleasure and the overwhelming intimacy of it.
"And then?" he asked again, his voice rough.
"And then I'm going to slide my cock into you," she whispered, and her voice was thick with emotion, raw with the weight of the promise. "I'm going to line myself up, feel the heat of you radiating onto the head of my cock, and I'm going to push inside you. Slowly, baby. So fucking slowly. I'm going to feel every inch of you stretching around me, feel your tight little hole struggling to take me, and I'm going to watch your face."
Her own face was a mask of desperate need, her lips parted, her breath hitching, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her brow. She looked like she was in pain, the need so overwhelming it was almost unbearable.
"How is it going to feel, baby?" he asked, his voice low and intense, his fingers still stroking the outline of her cock through the damp silk. "How is it going to feel when you finally slide inside me for the first time?"
A shudder ran through her entire body, and she made a small, broken sound. "It's going to feel like heaven," she breathed. "Like I'm finally coming home. I'm going to feel your heat, baby, your tightness, the way you clench around me. I'm going to feel your pulse against my cock, feel your body trying to pull me deeper. It's going to be the most incredible feeling in the world, feeling you take me, feeling you open up for me."
"Are you excited, baby?" he asked, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Are you excited to be the one to take my virginity? To be the first person to ever be inside me?"
Her eyes flew open, and the look in them was raw, primal, a mix of awe and desperate hunger. "Yes," she gasped, the word almost a sob. "God, yes, Ethan. I've been dreaming about it since you first confessed it to me in that supply closet. I can't stop thinking about it, about feeling myself push into you for the first time, knowing I'm the one, the only one, who's ever been inside you. It makes me dizzy, baby. It makes me so fucking hard I can barely think straight."
He could see the truth of it in her face, in the trembling of her lips, in the desperate, aching hunger that radiated from her like heat from a furnace. His grip on her ass loosened slightly, and she immediately tried to grind her hips forward, seeking friction against his thigh, but he tightened again, holding her still.
The weight of her confession settled over him like a warm blanket, and he felt the shift happen somewhere deep in his chest. The coiled tension in his shoulders, the possessive edge that had been driving him, it all bled away, leaving something softer, more vulnerable in its wake. His grip on her ass loosened, his fingers relaxing against the warm, firm flesh, and he pulled her closer instead, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his forehead against hers.
"Good," he breathed, the word barely more than a whisper. "I'm glad it's going to be you, B. I love you." The words came easily now, falling from his lips like they'd always been there. "I can't wait to give this part of myself to you. Something that will belong to you. Forever."
Her breath caught, a soft, sharp inhale that brushed warm against his lips. He could smell her, that intoxicating mix of jasmine perfume and sweat and the musky, sweet scent of her arousal, and he let himself sink into it, let himself be wrapped in her.
"I'm a little nervous," he admitted, the confession tasting honest on his tongue. "I don't know what it's going to feel like, or if I'm going to do it right. But I want this, Bianca. I want you. And I want you to be my first. I want you to show me how it can be."
For a long moment, she was still, her breathing ragged and uneven against his skin. Then she exhaled, long and loud, the sound shuddering through her entire body. Her hands came up to cup his face, her palms warm and slightly damp against his cheeks, and she pulled back just enough to look at him.
"Jesus Christ, Ethan," she said, her voice thick, almost reverent. "That was... that was incredible. Fuck, baby. You had me so worked up I was about ready to bend over and let you fuck me right here in the hallway."
He chuckled, the sound coming out rough and a little shaky. The image she painted, Bianca bent over with her red dress hiked up around her waist, that gorgeous cock hanging heavy and hard between her thighs, him sliding into her from behind, it sent a fresh pulse of heat through him. "Maybe next time," he said, his voice soft but clear. "But I've got dibs on getting bent over tonight."
Her eyes darkened, pupils flaring wide, and then she was kissing him.
It was different from the kisses before. The restaurant kiss had been a claiming, a declaration for the audience of strangers. This one was for them. Her lips moved against his with a slow, thorough tenderness, her tongue sliding against his like a promise, tasting of wine and tiramisu and her, always her. Her hands slid from his face to his neck, fingers threading through the hair at his nape, and she pulled him closer, their bodies flush against each other from chest to hip.
He could feel her cock through the silk of her dress, thick and hard and pressing into his thigh, and the reality of it, the heat and weight of her, made his mouth go dry. In moments she'd be inside him. For the first time in his life, he'd feel someone push into his body, claim him, own him. And it was her. It was Bianca.
She broke the kiss slowly, her lips trailing across his jaw, her breath hot and ragged against his ear. "I've got you, baby," she murmured, her voice low and steady. "We're going to take this slow. I'm going to take care of you. Trust me."
"Always," he whispered.
She pulled back from the kiss, and for a moment her eyes searched his face in the dim light of the hallway, something soft and wondering flickering in their depths. Then she giggled, a light, almost girlish sound that seemed at odds with the raw carnality of the moment before, and her hands slid down from his face to rest on his chest.
"Thank you, baby," she said, her voice husky and warm. "Thank you for what you're giving me tonight. Not just something you're giving to me, but something you're allowing me to have. Something you're letting me feel that I've never had with a man before." She shook her head slowly, a strand of black hair falling across her cheek. "No one's ever trusted me like this. No one's ever wanted me like this. I've never been someone's first before. I've never been the one someone chose to show them what this can be."
The vulnerability in her voice, the raw honesty, made his chest ache. He opened his mouth to respond, to tell her that she deserved this, that he couldn't imagine wanting anyone else, but she pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him.
"Don't say anything," she whispered. "Just feel it with me."
She stepped back, her hand finding his and threading her fingers through his. Her palm was warm, slightly damp from the heat of the entryway, and her grip was firm, anchoring him as she led him through the apartment. The living room was a dark blur of soft furniture and shadowed corners, the city lights casting long, golden stripes across the floor through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He caught the scent of the vanilla and sandalwood candles she burned, their fragrance lingering in the air, mingled with the faint, clean smell of her laundry detergent and something deeper, muskier, the scent of her home that had become as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.
Her bedroom was at the end of the hall, the door standing ajar. She pushed it open with her free hand, and the room was bathed in the soft, amber glow of a single bedside lamp. The bed dominated the space, a massive platform bed dressed in charcoal grey linens, the pillows piled high against the headboard. The sheets were rumpled from the morning, carrying the faint, intimate scent of her, that warm, musky fragrance that clung to the fabric and made his mouth water.
She guided him to the edge of the bed, her hand still in his, and then released him. Her palms found his shoulders, warm and steady, and she pushed, gently but with an undeniable authority that made his knees buckle. He sat, the mattress giving way beneath him, the familiar feel of her sheets against the backs of his thighs sending a shiver up his spine.
"Stay there," she said, her voice low and smoky. "Don't move."
He watched her, his breath caught in his throat, as she stepped back from him. The city lights framed her through the window behind her, a glittering tapestry of gold and silver, but all he could see was her. She reached up, her fingers finding the thin strap of the red dress where it lay against her shoulder. She hooked her index finger beneath it, pulling it down, slow, deliberate, the movement as languid as honey. The strap slid over the curve of her shoulder, baring the smooth, golden skin of her collarbone, and a shiver of anticipation rippled through him.
"You have no idea," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "how good it feels to have you watching me like this. To know that I get to take my time with you."
She mirrored the motion on her other side, the second strap slipping down to join the first. The bodice of the dress loosened, falling away from the swell of her breasts, and he caught a glimpse of the dark shadow of her cleavage, the firm, full curve of them. She reached up and gathered her hair in her hands, twisting it into a loose knot on top of her head, baring the elegant line of her neck. A few strands escaped, falling to frame her face, and the effect was devastating.
"I've been wanting to show you this all night," she said, her fingers working at the hidden zipper at her side. The sound of it, a slow, whispering rasp, filled the silence of the room. "Every time you looked at me across that table, I was thinking about this moment. About getting you alone, getting you on my bed, and showing you exactly what you do to me."
The dress loosened around her torso, and she let it slide. It caught on the curve of her hips, and she shimmied, a small, unhurried motion that made the fabric slither down her thighs. The red silk pooled at her feet, revealing her in pieces, like a gift being unwrapped.
First her shoulders, smooth and strong, the muscles of her deltoids subtly defined beneath the skin. Then her arms, toned and graceful, catching the lamplight. Then her breasts, full and round, tipped with dusky nipples that tightened under his gaze, the dark areolae pebbled with goosebumps. They swayed gently as she moved, heavy and perfect, and his mouth went dry.
Then her stomach, flat and firm, the faint outline of her abs visible beneath the skin. The black thong came into view, a thin strip of silk riding low on her hips, and even from where he sat he could see the thick, heavy bulge it barely contained, the outline of her cock pressing against the fabric, thick and rigid, straining for release. The tip of it, dark and flushed, peeked over the waistband, a bead of pre-cum glistening in the lamplight.
Then her hips, the sharp jut of her pelvic bones, the smooth, flat plane of her abdomen leading down into the dark V of the thong. Then her legs, long and powerful, the muscle of her quadriceps and hamstrings clearly defined beneath the smooth, hairless skin. She was a sculpture, a work of art, and he was lost in her.
She stepped out of the pooled dress, kicking it aside with the toe of her foot, and stood before him in nothing but the black thong and the charcoal shawl, which she'd forgotten she was wearing, letting it slide from her shoulders to join the dress on the floor. The lamplight painted her in gold and shadow, highlighting the curve of her waist, the generous flare of her hips, the thick, heavy column of her cock straining against the silk.
"See something you like, baby?" she asked, a slow, devastating smile curving her lips.
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.