Chapter 2: Dinner is Served with a Side of Tease
The lasagna was, as always, sublime. Layers of tender pasta, rich beef ragù, and creamy béchamel clung to Dan’s fork in perfect harmony. He took a slow bite, closing his eyes for a second. “You know, if the whole unemployed vintage goddess thing falls through, you could open a restaurant. Or a weapons lab. This is lethal.”
Amy smiled from across the candlelit table, her face glowing in the soft light. The sunflower sundress was a vintage find, the thin cotton straining over her bust, the neckline dipping precariously. “I have a very specific clientele. A party of one.” She swirled her red wine. “And he’s easily distracted.”
“By world-class cuisine?”
“By cleavage.” She took a sip, her eyes playful over the rim of the glass.
Dan pointed his fork at her. “The cleavage is a welcome accompaniment. Like a fine cheese plate.”
She laughed, the sound mixing with the gentle crackle of the candles. The dining room was her domain: polished dark wood, a mismatched set of floral china she’d collected from thrift stores, framed prints of botanicals. It felt like a cocoon, separate from the digital chaos of his office or the steam-filled bathroom. Here, things were slow, and real, and tasted of garlic and basil.
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the events of the afternoon a warm hum between them. His body felt pleasantly used, muscles loose.
“So,” Amy said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Did you finally slay the honey badger?”
“Temporarily. It’ll be back with friends tomorrow. The code is never truly done. It just goes into hiding.” He sighed, but it was a contented sound. The frustration of the afternoon felt distant, unimportant.
“My hero.” She rose, collecting their empty plates. As she moved around the table, the scent of her perfume—vanilla and something like sun-warmed linen—wafted past him. She leaned over his shoulder to take his plate, her movement deliberately slow. The low neckline of her dress gaped, and the full, soft curve of her breast brushed against his shoulder, the nipple a firm point through the cotton.
His breath hitched. The casual contact was as potent as the earlier, more frantic moments.
“Save room for dessert,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear. Then she was gone, hips swaying as she carried the plates to the kitchen.
Dan remained seated, staring at the flickering candle flame. He felt a familiar, eager stirring in his sweatpants. Easy, he told himself. You’re forty-five, not twenty-five. But his body, warmed by wine and her proximity, didn’t seem to be listening.
He heard the clatter of dishes in the sink, then the quiet click of the cupboard. She returned not with a plate, but with two small glasses and a bottle of amaretto. She set them down and then, instead of returning to her chair, she simply climbed into his lap.
“Amy—” he started, his hands automatically coming up to steady her.
“Shhh.” She settled her weight against him, her thighs straddling his, the thin cotton of her dress riding up. She was warm and solid. She picked up the bottle, poured two generous measures of the amber liquid, and handed him one. “Dessert is served.”
“This is dessert?”
“The first course.” She clinked her glass against his and took a sip. He did the same, the sweet, almond-rich liquor burning a smooth path down his throat. Her proximity was intoxicating. He could feel every breath she took, the shift of her body on his. He let his free hand rest on the bare skin of her thigh, his thumb making small, idle circles.
“You’re insatiable,” he said, his voice low.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” She took another sip, then leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. “I had a thought, while the lasagna was baking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Very. I was thinking about that conference you went to. In Denver. Two years ago.”
A vague sense of unease trickled through his warmth. “The one with the terrible wifi and the rubber chicken dinner? What about it?”
“You had a roommate. That guy from Seattle. Mark.” Her tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp, watching him.
“Yeah. Mark. We shared a two-bed suite. Snored like a chainsaw. Why?”
She shifted slightly, the movement causing a delicious friction. “I was imagining it.”
“The snoring?”
“No.” She kissed him, a slow, amaretto-flavored kiss. “I was imagining you, in a hotel room. With him down the hall. And me there with you.” Her voice dropped to a whisper against his lips. “I was imagining you having to be quiet. Having to fuck me silently, with just a wall between you and some stranger. Having to cover my mouth when I came.”
Dan felt a jolt of pure, electric heat straight to his core. The image was vivid, unexpected. “Jesus, Amy.”
“Would you have done it?” she breathed, her hand sliding down his chest. “Risked it?”
He thought about it. The sterile hotel room, the muffled sounds of a convention in the hall, the sheer, reckless audacity of it. With her? Absolutely. “Yes,” he said, no hesitation. “I would have tried to be quiet. You would have made it impossible.”
She rewarded him with another deep kiss, grinding herself against the hardening length of him. “I know,” she murmured. “I’d have wanted him to hear. Just a little. To know what you were doing to me.”
The fantasy unfolded in his mind, detailed and urgent. His hands tightened on her hips. The candlelight seemed to pulse with the quickening of his pulse.
The sharp, digital chirp of his work phone vibrating on the sideboard shattered the moment like thrown glass.
They both froze. Amy let out a soft, frustrated groan, dropping her forehead to his shoulder. “Ignore it.”
“It’s after nine,” Dan said, the practical part of his brain clawing its way back. “It could be the Singapore team. Their day is just starting.”
“Let them start it without you.”
The phone chirped again, insistent. A tight knot of obligation formed in Dan’s stomach, tangled with the threads of desire. He hated it. He took a deep breath, his nose buried in her hair. “I just have to check. If it’s the deployment alert, it’ll be two seconds. If it’s anything else, I’ll silence it.”
Amy went still for a long moment. Then, with a sigh that was more resignation than anger, she pushed herself off his lap. The sudden absence of her warmth felt like a punishment. “Fine. Go. Minister to your machines.”
“Amy…”
“Just go check.” She turned her back, picking up her amaretto glass and taking a long swallow. Her posture was stiff.
Dan stood, his body protesting the sudden shift from sensual to mundane. He padded to the sideboard and picked up the sleek, black phone. The screen glowed with a notification—not Singapore, but a Slack direct message from his project manager, Kieran. Hey Dan, got a sec? Need to pick your brain on the AWS config.
It wasn’t an emergency. It was a “can we turn this into an emergency?” Dan felt a surge of irritation. He typed a quick reply, his thumbs clumsy. Deep in family time. Can circle back first thing tomorrow. He hit send, then powered the phone off completely. The screen went dark.
He turned back to Amy. She was still facing the fireplace, her silhouette proud and unyielding in the candlelight.
“It’s off,” he said, quietly.
She didn’t turn. “What did they want?”
“Nothing that can’t wait. I told them tomorrow.”
“And they’ll listen?” There was a faint, wounded edge in her voice he rarely heard. It cut through him deeper than anger would have.
He walked over to her, stopping close behind. He didn’t touch her. “I don’t know. But I’m here now. And the phone is off.” He paused. “The hotel room in Denver had a lock on the door. A flimsy one, but a lock. And I would have used it.”
She turned then, her eyes searching his face. He saw the flicker of vulnerability, the fear of being sidelined by a world of pixels and pings. He saw the woman who spent her day creating tangible, beautiful things—a meal, a clean home, a moment of passion—for him.
He reached out and gently took the glass from her hand, setting it on the mantelpiece. Then he cradled her face in his hands. “You are my first priority. The only one that doesn’t have a snooze button.”
A slight tremor went through her. The stiffness left her shoulders. She leaned into his touch. “Even over the honey badger?”
“Especially over the honey badger.” He kissed her, a promise this time. “Now, where were we? You were about to be very, very loud in a very quiet hotel.”
A genuine smile finally touched her lips. “I was, wasn’t I?” She slid her hands under his t-shirt, her nails scraping lightly up his back. “I think we were right about here.” She guided his hands to the hem of her sundress.
As he lifted the soft cotton over her head, letting it fall forgotten to the floor, the candles guttered, casting long, dancing shadows around them. The room held its breath. The silent phone on the sideboard was a distant memory. Here, now, there was only the language of skin and breath, a conversation that had no need for words, and a hunger that refused to be scheduled.
She stood before him naked in the candlelight, her skin gleaming, the heavy, gorgeous weight of her breasts rising and falling with her breath. Dan drank her in, the faint silver lines on her hips, the familiar curve of her waist, the dark triangle of hair between her legs.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice husky. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugged. He stepped out of them, kicking them aside. His cock, already fully hard, sprang free, thick and curving slightly upward against his stomach.
Amy’s eyes darkened with pure appetite. She reached out, her fingers not touching him yet, just hovering close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin. “I still think about that hotel,” she murmured. “About you trying to be quiet.” Her hand finally closed around him, a firm, knowing grip that made his thighs tense. “You wouldn’t have been.”
“No,” he grunted, the word tight in his throat.
“I would have bitten your shoulder.” She began to stroke him, her thumb swiping over the slick head. “I would have clawed your back. And you would have had to explain the marks to Mark over shitty conference coffee.”
The fantasy, mixed with her skilled, rough touch, was unraveling him. He grabbed her wrist, stilling her hand. “Enough talking about him.” He guided her backwards until her calves hit the dining chair. “Sit.”
She obeyed, lowering herself onto the hard wood, her eyes never leaving his. She spread her legs, offering herself, the wet gleam of her visible in the shadow between her thighs. He knelt before her, the hardwood floor unforgiving on his knees. He didn’t care. He pushed her thighs wider and buried his face in her.
She cried out, a sharp, unfiltered sound that echoed in the quiet room. Her hands flew to his hair, gripping fistfuls. He licked into her, deep and slow, then fast and shallow, learning her rhythm all over again. She tasted of salt and musk and Amy, a flavor as familiar as his own breath and just as necessary. He fucked her with his tongue, relentless, until her thighs trembled and her curses became a broken litany.
“Oh fuck, Dan, right there, don’t you stop, you bastard.” Her hips bucked against his mouth. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, and her back arched off the chair. She came with a choked, guttural scream, her climax pulsing around his fingers, her body shaking.
He rose, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. She was panting, boneless against the chair, a sheen of sweat on her chest. But her eyes were already sharp again, hungry for more.
“My turn,” he said, his voice rough.
Before she could answer, he sat back in his own chair. “Come here.”
A slow smile spread across her flushed face. She understood. She stood on shaky legs and then, with deliberate grace, she straddled his lap, facing him. Her large, heavy breasts pressed against his chest, their warmth a shock. He could feel her wetness smearing on his stomach, feel the hard points of her nipples digging into his skin.
“Now,” he said, his hands gripping her hips. “We’re going to the living room.”
“What—” she started, but in one fluid, powerful motion, he stood up from the chair, taking her full weight with him. She gasped, her arms locking around his neck, her legs wrapping tight around his waist. He held her there, impaled on nothing but the promise of what was coming, her heat a brand against his abdomen.
He carried her like that, through the dim hallway, past the dark office where his monitors glowed with dormant code. Her breath was hot in his ear, little pants of anticipation. He shouldered his way into the living room, the space cool and shadowed by the single lamp she’d left on earlier.
At the large, plush couch, he bent his knees and gently deposited her onto the soft cushions. She fell back, her hair fanning out, her body a pale contrast against the dark fabric. He stood over her for a moment, just looking. Then he joined her, kneeling between her splayed legs.
Together, they worked to remove his t-shirt. She pulled it up, he wrenched it over his head and tossed it into the darkness. Now they were both finally, fully naked. The air in the room was cool, raising goosebumps on their heated skin.
“Condom?” she breathed, though they hadn’t used one in years.
“I’m clean. You’re on the pill.”
“Just checking,” she said, reaching for him. “I want you raw. I want to feel all of it.”
He needed no further invitation. He guided himself to her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her soaked folds. He pushed in, just an inch, making them both groan at the exquisite, familiar tightness.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and her eyes, glazed with lust, found his.
He sank into her completely, a slow, devastating invasion that stole the air from both their lungs. She was impossibly tight, hot, and clutching at him. He bottomed out, his hips flush against hers, and they stayed there, motionless, joined to the hilt, just feeling the full, profound depth of the connection.
“Christ, Amy,” he whispered, the strain evident in his voice.
“Move,” she begged, her nails digging into his forearms. “Please, Dan, fuck me. Fuck me like you meant it in that hotel.”
He withdrew almost all the way, then drove back in, a hard, purposeful stroke that shook the couch frame. She yelped, a sound of pure satisfaction. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a claim, each withdrawal a theft. The wet, slick sounds of their coupling filled the quiet room, a obscene counterpoint to their ragged breathing.
“You like that?” he growled, leaning over her, his pace unrelenting. “You like getting fucked silent?”
“I can’t—” she gasped, her head thrashing side to side. “I can’t be quiet. Not with this. Not with your fucking giant cock splitting me open.”
Her dirty talk ignited him. He shifted his angle, grinding deep on every inward stroke. Her eyes flew wide. “There! Right there, god, don’t stop!”
He didn’t. He hammered into that spot, his own control fraying. The sight of her beneath him—breasts jolting with each impact, face contorted in pleasure—was too much. He felt the primal coil in his gut tightening, a wire about to snap.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, the words ripped from him.
“Do it,” she snarled, pulling him closer. “Come inside me. Fill me up. Mark it.”
Her words were the final trigger. His orgasm erupted, a volcanic surge that ripped a raw, broken shout from his throat. He pulsed into her, deep and endless, his body shuddering with the force of it. The intensity of his climax pushed her over the edge a second later; he felt her inner muscles clenching and milking him in rhythmic, violent spasms, her own cry muffled against his shoulder where she bit down, hard.
The aftershocks left them trembling. He collapsed onto her, careful to keep his weight on his forearms, still buried inside her as they both fought for air. The smell of sex and sweat was thick in the cool air. Her fingers traced weak, wandering patterns on his sweat-slick back.
After a long while, he softened and slipped out of her. He rolled to the side, pulling her with him, tucking her against his body on the narrow couch. She winced slightly as she moved. “I’m going to feel that tomorrow,” she murmured, a note of pride in her exhaustion.
“Good,” he said, kissing her damp temple.
They lay in silence, listening to the old house settle around them. The candle in the dining room would be guttering out. The phone on the sideboard was still off. His code waited, patient and dead, in the other room.
Amy nuzzled closer, her hand resting on his chest over his slowing heart. “Dessert was better than the lasagna,” she whispered.
He smiled in the darkness. “It always is.” He felt her smile against his skin, a silent promise that tomorrow, the hunger would return, unscheduled and undeniable.