Chapter 4: Under the Table
The wooden bench was unforgiving, but Demi barely felt it. All her awareness was concentrated on the heat of Josh’s leg pressed against hers under the scarred table, and the weight of his hand, hidden by the cheery red-checked napkin he’d draped over his lap. Her own napkin was crumpled in her fist.
The brunch spot was a cacophony of redemption—bloody marys clutched by pale hands, the shriek of laughter from a nearby table, the relentless thump of synth-pop from the DJ crammed into the corner. The air hung thick with the smell of maple syrup, fried potatoes, and shared secrets.
Maya, sporting enormous sunglasses, was holding court. “...and then I swear to god, this guy in the neon morphsuit tried to propose to the LED wall.It was performance art, or a bad trip. We may never know.”
Lizzie snorted, stabbing a piece of cantaloupe. “Better than Marcus trying to start a conga line during the ambient chill-out set.”
“It was a moment of spiritual resonance,” Marcus insisted, his voice still a little hoarse. He was watching Josh, a faint, knowing tilt to his eyebrows as Josh took a slow sip of his black coffee. Josh’s other hand was out of sight.
“You’re quiet, Demi,” Maya said, pushing her glasses up. “Recovering from your own spiritual resonance?”
Demi felt Josh’s fingertip, calloused and deliberate, trace the hem of her sundress where it ended mid-thigh.She stiffened. “Just… absorbing the vibrations.” She grabbed her ice water, the condensation wet against her palm.Under the table, Josh’s hand slid higher. The chatter continued, a safe blanket of noise.Marcus argued with Lizzie about the merits of deep house versus trance. Maya speculated about the DJ’s personal life.It was all normal, beautifully, mercifully normal.
Except Josh’s fingers were now under the fabric of her dress, skimming the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. He reached the lace edge of her thong—the black one she’d put on this morning with a flutter of daring—and didn’t stop. He hooked a finger under the side strap and pulled it aside.Demi’s breath caught in her throat. She set the water glass down carefully, afraid her grip would shatter it.
His middle finger found her, already slick from the mere anticipation of this.He slid through her folds, a slow, shocking exploration. A bolt of pure, electric pleasure shot up her spine. She dug the nails of her free hand into the worn wood of the bench.“You okay, Dee?” Lizzie asked, her eyes sharp.
“Yeah,” Demi managed, her voice an octave too high. “Just… really loves these pancakes.” Under the table, Josh’s finger settled on her clit, applying a soft, maddening pressure.He began to move in slow, deliberate circles.Her world split. Above the table: laughter, the clink of cutlery, the brunch-time sun streaming through grimy windows. Below: a secret, liquid universe where Josh’s finger was drawing concentric circles of fire. She felt herself getting wetter, the sound obscenely loud in her own ears. She crossed her ankles, trying to ground herself, but it only pushed her more firmly against his hand.
“So, Demi,” Maya said, leaning forward. “The guy you were talking to by the speakers, the one with the dragon tattoos. Any follow-up there?”
Josh chose that moment to push two fingers inside her, deep and smooth.Her pelvic muscles clenched around the sudden intrusion. A small, choked sound escaped her lips.“What?” Demi blinked, her vision swimming.
“Dragon Tattoo Guy,” Maya repeated slowly, a smirk playing on her lips.“Oh.No. No follow-up.” The words were tight. Josh was pumping his fingers, a lazy, relentless rhythm that matched the cheesy pop beat overhead. His thumb replaced his forefinger on her clit, pressing harder.Every thrust sent a wave of heat through her abdomen. She could feel her own wetness coating his fingers, dripping. She was aware of everything: the rough denim of Josh’s jeans against her bare leg, the coarse lace of her thong digging where he’d displaced it, the cool air of the restaurant on her flushed cheeks.Marcus was telling a story, his hands animated. Lizzie was laughing. It was all happening around her while she was being dismantled piece by piece under a cheap red napkin.Josh leaned in, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached for the syrup. His lips were close to her ear, his breath hot. “You’re dripping all over my hand,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp only she could hear. His fingers curled inside her, finding a spot that made her see white at the edges of her vision.“You gonna come? Here? With all our friends watching?”
He increased the pace, his thumb rubbing her clit in quick, tight circles.The pressure built, a coil wound to breaking point. The noises of the restaurant faded into a dull roar.Her knuckles were white where she gripped the table edge. Pleasure, sharp and inexorable, gathered low in her belly.“Come for me. Right now,” he whispered, a direct command.
She bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood.Her thighs snapped shut, trapping his hand, as the orgasm ripped through her. It was silent, violent, a contained explosion that shook her frame. Her back arched slightly, a spasm she tried to mask by reaching for her orange juice. Waves of sensation pulsed around his fingers, each one milking them deeper. She rode it, trembling, her eyes unfocused, fixed on a sticky syrup bottle in the center of the table.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he withdrew his fingers.She felt the empty chill, the cool air on her soaked skin. She risked a glance at him.He brought his hand up under the guise of adjusting his napkin. Then, with his eyes locked on hers, he lifted his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, his tongue capturing every trace of her. The obscenity of the act, performed with such casual grace, sent a fresh, shameful thrill through her.No one noticed. Maya was arguing with the waiter about avocado toast.Marcus was scrolling through his phone. Lizzie was lighting a cigarette, waving away the waitress’s protest.
Josh leaned back, draping his arm across the back of the booth behind Demi.His hand, now resting on her shoulder, smelled faintly of her. He took a bite of his eggs, chewing slowly, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
The conversation washed over them again.Demi’s heart hammered against her ribs. She felt raw, exposed, and utterly claimed. She picked up her fork, her hand steady now, and took a bite of a cold pancake.The sweetness was cloying.
It was Marcus who finally broke the new tension, his gaze shifting between them, lingering on the possessive curl of Josh’s arm around Demi.He didn’t smirk or wink. He just gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, as if settling a private bet he’d made with himself years ago.
“So,” Marcus said, his voice cutting through the post-orgasmic haze still clouding Demi’s mind.“What’s the plan for tonight? Or are you two officially retiring from public life?” The question hung in the air, heavy with implication, waiting to see where it would land.