Chapter 16: The Restaurant
The door of the storage closet opened with a soft click, and the light from the corridor spilled in, harsh and unforgiving. Adrian blinked, his eyes adjusting, his body still humming with the aftershocks of what they had just done. Raven was already smoothing her dress down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, looking impossibly composed for a woman who had just been bent over a stack of whiskey crates.
She turned to him, her lips curved in that maddening half-smile. "You have something on your shirt."
He looked down. A smear of something—lipstick, or maybe her makeup—streaked across the white cotton near his collar. He tried to wipe it off, but it only smeared further.
"Leave it," she said. "It's a good look. Very... disheveled."
"I'm not disheveled."
"You are. In every way that matters." She stepped closer, reaching up to adjust his collar, her fingers brushing against his neck. The touch was light, almost tender, a stark contrast to the violence of their coupling. "Now take me to dinner."
"Dinner?"
"I'm hungry, Adrian. And you owe me."
"I don't owe you anything."
"You do." Her eyes met his, dark and unreadable. "You owe me an evening where you pretend, for once, that you're not ashamed to be seen with me."
The words landed like a blow. He opened his mouth to protest, to deny, but the truth of them echoed in the silence between them. He had never taken her anywhere in public. Every encounter had been in the shadows—his office, her apartment, the back of a car, the dark corners of a club. He had kept her hidden, compartmentalized, a secret vice that he could pretend didn't exist when the sun came up.
"Fine," he said. "Dinner."
She smiled, and it was the first genuine smile he had seen on her all night. "There's a place I know. Not far from here. They'll take care of us."
They took the Mercedes, the driver weaving through the late-night streets of Milan with practiced ease. Raven gave directions in fluid Italian, her accent impeccable, her voice a low murmur that seemed to fill the car. Adrian sat in silence, watching the city pass by, trying to regain some semblance of control.
The restaurant was tucked away on a side street, its façade unremarkable—a heavy wooden door, a single brass knocker, no sign. But when Raven knocked, the door opened immediately, revealing a maître d' in a crisp black suit who seemed to recognize her on sight.
"Signorina Delacroix," he said, his voice warm with familiarity. "Your usual table is ready."
"Thank you, Marco." She slipped her arm through Adrian's, pulling him closer. "My husband and I are celebrating tonight."
Adrian stiffened. "Husband?"
"Just for tonight." Her whisper was hot against his ear. "Play along."
Marco led them through a labyrinth of velvet curtains and dimly lit corridors, past tables where Milan's elite dined on truffles and silence, past a piano where a man in a tuxedo played something soft and melancholy. The restaurant was a gilded cage, all mahogany and candlelight, the air thick with the scent of aged wine and expensive perfume.
Their table was in a corner, secluded behind a curtain of deep burgundy velvet, private and intimate. A single candle flickered between them, casting dancing shadows across Raven's face. She picked up the wine list without looking at it, her eyes fixed on him.
"What's your pleasure, husband?"
"The Barolo," he said, his voice flat. "2015."
"An excellent choice." She handed the list to Marco without glancing at it. "The 2015 Barolo, and we'll start with the burrata and the octopus."
"Very good, signora."
When they were alone, Raven leaned back in her chair, studying him with those dark, fathomless eyes. "You're tense."
"Of course I'm tense. You just introduced me as your husband."
"Is that so bad?" She reached across the table, her fingers brushing against his. "Pretending to be mine, just for one night? It's not like you have to go home to anyone who would know the difference."
The words were a calculated strike, aimed precisely at the guilt he carried like a millstone. He pulled his hand away.
"What's the game here, Raven? What are you trying to do?"
"Game?" Her eyebrows rose, innocent and mocking. "I'm not playing a game, Adrian. I'm having dinner with a man I've been sleeping with for months. I'm just asking for one evening where you don't treat me like a dirty secret."
"You know why—"
"Do I?" She leaned forward, the neckline of her dress gaping slightly, revealing the curve of her breasts. "You tell me, then. Why? Because the way I remember it, you're the one who came looking for me. You're the one who slid your hand up my skirt at the company Christmas party. You're the one who begged me to stay when I said I should leave."
The memories cut deep. He remembered the party, the way she had looked in that red dress, the way he had felt when her hand had found his thigh beneath the table. He remembered the desperate, fumbling encounter in his office afterward, the way he had sworn it would never happen again. And he remembered the way it had happened again, and again, and again.
"You're not a dirty secret," he said, but even he could hear the hollowness in his voice.
"Then prove it." She settled back in her chair, a challenge in her eyes. "Be my husband tonight. Hold my hand. Look at me like you want me. And I'll make it worth your while."
The wine arrived, along with the burrata, creamy and delicate, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt. Marco poured the Barolo into two crystal glasses, the dark liquid catching the candlelight like liquid ruby.
Adrian took a sip. The wine was extraordinary—complex, layered, with notes of cherry and truffle and something darker, something almost animal. It warmed him from the inside, loosening the knots in his shoulders.
"Good?" Raven asked.
"Very good."
She smiled, picked up her fork, and took a bite of the burrata. Her lips closed around the fork, and Adrian watched the motion with a sudden, unbidden flash of memory—those same lips wrapped around him, in the storage closet barely an hour ago. He shifted in his seat, trying to suppress the stirring in his groin.
"Tell me a secret," she said, setting down her fork.
"A secret?"
"Something you've never told anyone." She ripped a piece of bread from the basket, dipped it in olive oil, and raised it to her lips. "Something that scares you.'
"I don't have secrets."
"Everyone has secrets, Adrian." Her foot slipped out of her stiletto, and she reached across the table, pressing the bare sole against his ankle. "Even you."
The touch was electric. He tried to ignore it, to focus on his wine, but she was persistent. Her foot slid up his calf, slow and deliberate, tracing a path along the inside of his leg. He could feel the heat of her skin through his trousers, the flex of her toes as they worked their way higher.
"You want to know a secret?" he said, his voice strained.
"Mmm." Her foot reached his knee, paused, then continued its upward journey.
"Sometimes, when I'm alone in my office, I think about burning it all down. The firm. The house. My entire life. I think about walking away and never looking back."
"Interesting." Her toes reached his thigh, pressing against the growing bulge in his trousers. "What would you do if you walked away?"
"I don't know." He gasped as her foot found his hardness, pressing against it through the fabric. "I've never gotten that far."
"Let me tell you something, husband." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a murmur. "If you walked away, you'd find me waiting. I'm always waiting."
She withdrew her foot, and he nearly groaned with frustration. She picked up her wine glass, took a sip, and smiled at him over the rim with all the satisfaction of a cat who had cornered a mouse.
The main course arrived—branzino for her, a rare steak for him. The food was exceptional, but Adrian barely tasted it. Every fiber of his being was focused on the woman across from him, on the way her toes traced patterns on his thigh, on the way her tongue darted out to catch a drop of sauce on her lips.
"Tell me about your wife," she said, forking a piece of white fish.
"Why?"
"Because I'm curious." She chewed slowly, watching him. "What's she like?"
"She's... good. Kind. Innocent."
"Innocent." Raven's lips curved. "She's lucky you, then. You're not very innocent at all, are you, Adrian?"
"You're not making this easy."
"I'm not trying to make it easy." Her foot found its way back to his crotch, pressing harder this time. "I'm trying to make you forget her. Just for tonight."
He closed his eyes, trying to summon the image of his wife's face, the guilt that usually accompanied such thoughts. But all he could see was Raven, her dark hair spread across a pillow, her lips parted, her body arching beneath him.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice raw.
"Right now?" She withdrew her foot, reached for her wine. "I want to finish my dinner. Then I want to go back to the hotel. And I want you to fuck me like you mean it."
"What does that even mean?"
She set down her glass, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that made his breath catch. "It means I want you to stop holding back. Stop treating me like something to be ashamed of. When you're inside me, I want to know that you're thinking about me. Only me. Not her. Not the guilt. Not the consequences."
"And what do I get in return?"
"Everything." She reached across the table, her hand covering his. "I'll give you everything, Adrian. All you have to do is take it."
The waiter appeared to clear their plates, asking about dessert. Raven ordered tiramisu, tartuffo, and two espressos, her hand never leaving his.
The desserts arrived, decadent and rich. Raven dipped her spoon into the tartuffo, bringing a bite of chocolate hazelnut gelato to her lips. Her eyes closed, her mouth wrapping around the spoon in a way that was almost pornographic. Adrian watched, transfixed.
"You should try this," she said, pushing her plate toward him.
He took a bite. The gelato was cold and sweet, melting on his tongue.
"Good, right?" She reached across the table, wiping a smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. Then she brought the thumb to her own lips, licking it clean.
"I need to get out of here," he said.
"Not until I finish my espresso." She picked up the tiny cup, sipped it slowly, holding his gaze the entire time. Her other foot had found his crotch again, pressing and teasing, working him into a barely controlled frenzy.
The espresso seemed to take an eternity. She sipped it, savoring it, her eyes never leaving his. She set the cup down, dabbed her lips with a linen napkin, and stood.
"Shall we, husband?"
He stood, his hands shaking. She took his arm, pressing close against him, her breast against his bicep as they walked through the restaurant. Marco materialized at the door, holding a receipt.
Adrian signed it without looking, his mind elsewhere. He pulled Raven out into the cool night air, the door swinging shut behind them.
"Taxi," he said, his voice clipped. "Now."
"Such a gentleman." But she was already raising her hand, hailing a cab.
The vehicle pulled up, and they climbed in. Adrian gave the driver the name of their hotel. Raven sat close, her hand on his thigh, her fingers tracing slow circles.
They didn't speak. The car moved through the streets of Milan, the city lights flickering past like memories. When they reached the hotel, Adrian threw a handful of euros at the driver and practically dragged Raven into the lobby.
"I hope you slept enough earlier," she murmured, her lips against his ear. "Because you won't be sleeping tonight."
The elevator seemed to take forever. The corridor seemed endless. But finally they were at the door, fumbling with the keycard, tumbling through into the darkened suite.
The door clicked shut. The darkness swallowed them.
Then there was only her.