Chapter 8: The Restaurant Booth Confession
The waiter materialized at the edge of the booth like a ghost, his hands efficient and his expression bored. He stacked their plates—scraped clean, the risotto and the gnocchi nothing but smears of sauce and memory—and vanished again before Luna could blink.
She watched him go. Watched the way his black apron swung with his stride. Watched the candle on the table gutter and right itself, the flame steadying into something small and warm and constant.
"That was good," she said.
Leo was looking at her mouth. Not her eyes. Her mouth.
"It was."
"I'm serious. The gnocchi—"
"I know."
He wasn't listening. Or he was, but not to her words. His attention was pinned to the way her lips wrapped around the syllables, the way her tongue darted out to catch a stray crumb, the way her neck flushed pink under the weight of his stare.
Luna reached for her water glass. Her hand was shaking.
The wine had something to do with it. The second bottle—the one he'd ordered without asking, the one sitting half-empty between them—had loosened her spine, softened her edges. But the wine wasn't the reason her thighs kept pressing together, sticky and warm, the lace of her thong still twisted from the parking lot.
That was all him.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're worth staring at."
"Cheesy."
"Honest."
She took a sip of water. The ice clinked against her teeth. She set the glass down and reached across the table, palm up, fingers open.
He took her hand. His thumb traced circles on her wrist, lazy and deliberate.
"So," she said, "my stream."
"What about it?"
"I ended it early. Again." She laughed, a little breathless. "My viewers are going to riot."
"What were you doing instead?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"Before you came downstairs," he clarified. "What were you doing?"
"Standing in front of my closet. Staring at that dress."
"The dress you're wearing."
"The dress I haven't worn in two years."
His thumb stopped moving. His eyes sharpened.
"Why not?"
She shrugged. Tried to make it casual. "Bad memory."
"Ethan?"
The name landed between them like a dropped glass. She didn't flinch. Didn't pull her hand away. Just nodded, slow, her gaze dropping to the tablecloth.
"He told me I looked like I was trying too hard."
Leo's jaw tightened. His fingers curled around hers, just a little too hard.
"That's a lie."
"I know."
"Do you?"
She looked up. Met his eyes. The candlelight caught the gold flecks in his irises, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his expression had gone dark and serious.
"I'm working on it," she said.
He lifted her hand. Pressed his lips to her knuckles. One. Two. Three. Slow and deliberate, like he was counting.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm going to tell you every day until you believe it."
"Every day?"
"If you'll let me."
Her heart did something complicated. A stutter. A flip. A quiet, terrifying expansion.
"Leo—"
"I know." He released her hand. Sat back. Reached for the wine, refilled both glasses. "Too fast. Too much. I know."
She took the glass. Drank.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
"I'm not scared of fast."
He paused. Glass halfway to his mouth.
"You're not?"
"I'm scared of the part after fast. The part where—" She stopped. Shook her head.
"Where what?"
"Where they get bored. Where they decide you're not worth the effort anymore. Where you wake up one day and they're gone and you don't even know why."
The words spilled out of her like water from a cracked cup. She hadn't meant to say them. Hadn't meant to admit that much. But the wine was warm in her stomach and his eyes were patient and the candle flickered between them like a heartbeat.
Leo set his glass down. Leaned forward. His face was close enough that she could smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his cologne, the faint salt of his skin.
"I'm not going to get bored," he said.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?"
"Because I've spent the last two weeks thinking about you every second I'm not with you. Because I've cancelled plans, ditched friends, ignored calls from women I wouldn't have thought twice about before. Because I've never—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Because you're not like anyone I've ever met."
"Leo—"
"I'm not done."
She closed her mouth.
"I've had a lot of first dates," he said. "A lot of nights. A lot of women."
"I know."
"Let me finish."
She nodded.
"None of them mattered. Not because they weren't good people. Not because I didn't care. But because I was looking for something and I couldn't find it. And then—" He shook his head. "And then I saw you in that bar. And you were terrified. And I wanted to kill whoever made you feel that way."
Luna's throat tightened.
"And then we talked for three hours and I forgot I was supposed to be charming. I forgot I was supposed to be running lines or whatever the fuck I do. I just—I wanted to know you. All of you. The pink hair. The streaming. The fact that you wear oversized hoodies even though you look like—"
"Like what?"
He didn't answer with words.
His hand slid under the tablecloth.
Luna stopped breathing.
His fingers found her knee first. Warm and dry and steady. Then they moved up—inside her thigh, pushing the hem of her dress higher, higher, until they found the soaked lace still pushed aside.
"You're still wet," he said.
"Yes."
"From earlier."
"Yes."
His middle finger slid through her folds. Slow. Exploratory. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.
"You didn't clean up."
"Didn't want to."
His finger pushed inside her. Just the tip. Just enough.
"Tell me about your stream."
"What?"
"Your stream." He added pressure. Pushed deeper. His thumb found her clit and stayed there, a slow circle. "You said you ended early. What were you doing before that?"
She could barely think. Her hands had curled into fists on the table. Her hips were trying to move, to grind down, but the booth was too small and he was too far away and she needed—
"I was—" His thumb pressed harder. "I was—"
"You were what?"
"Looking at my phone."
"Why?"
"Because—" She bit down on a moan. "Because you kept texting me."
"Did I?"
"You know you did."
His finger curled inside her. Found something that made her vision blur.
"I text you because I can't help it," he said. "I text you because I'm sitting in a briefing and all I can think about is what you taste like. I text you because I'm flying and I almost forget to check my instruments because I'm replaying the way you said my name when you came."
"Leo—"
The waiter appeared.
Luna knocked her water glass over.
It happened in slow motion—the glass tipping, the water arcing through the air, the splash across the tablecloth. The waiter stopped. Looked at the mess. Looked at Luna's face, which was red and sweating and desperate, and then at Leo's face, which was calm and pleasant and absolutely unbothered.
"Everything okay here?"
"Fine," Leo said. His thumb was still moving.
Luna made a sound. It was supposed to be words but came out as a squeak.
"Can I get you anything? More water? A towel?"
"The check," Leo said. "Please."
The waiter nodded and vanished.
Leo pulled his hand away.
Luna almost cried.
"Let's go," he said.
She didn't argue. Couldn't argue. Her legs were shaking, her cunt was empty, and every nerve in her body was screaming for him.
Leo tossed cash onto the table—too much, way too much—and stood. He took her hand. Pulled her to her feet.
She stumbled against him. He caught her. His hand pressed into the small of her back and steered her toward the door.
The cold air hit her like a slap.
They made it to the truck.
She pushed him against the driver's side door.
"Luna—"
"Shut up."
She kissed him. Filthy. Wet. Teeth and tongue and the taste of wine and pasta. Her hands found his belt, yanked it open, popped the button on his jeans.
"Luna, someone could—"
"I don't care."
She shoved him back. He hit the door with a grunt. She dropped to her knees on the asphalt.
"Luna—"
She freed his cock from his boxers. Already hard. Already leaking. She wrapped her hand around the base and licked the head.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She took him in her mouth.
Not gentle. Not teasing. She was done with teasing. She wanted him down her throat, wanted to feel him hit the back of her tongue, wanted to make him lose control the way he'd made her lose control in that booth.
She bobbed her head. Took him deeper. Her hand worked the shaft while her tongue dragged along the underside, and Leo's hips jerked forward without permission.
"Shit—Luna—"
She hummed. The vibration made him groan. His hand found her hair and twisted, not pushing, just holding.
"Your mouth," he said. "Your fucking mouth."
She pulled back. Spit on his cock. Stroked him hard and fast.
"You like that?"
"Yes."
"Tell me."
"I love it. I love your mouth. I love the way you look with my dick between your lips."
She smiled. Took him back in.
He was close. She could tell—the way his breathing changed, the way his fingers tightened in her hair, the way his thighs shook under her palms.
"Luna—I'm going to—"
She didn't stop. Didn't pull away. She wanted to taste him. Wanted to swallow him down and prove something she couldn't name.
He came with a groan that echoed off the brick wall behind them.
She swallowed. Every drop. Licked him clean.
Then she rose to her feet, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and met his eyes.
"Drive," she said.
He stared at her. Chest heaving. Pupils blown. Cock still out, still wet, still half-hard.
"What?"
"Drive."
He drove.
His apartment was eight minutes away. It felt like eight years.
He barely got the door open before she was on him again—pushing him through the entryway, kicking the door shut behind them, clawing at his shirt.
"Bedroom?" she asked.
"Couch."
"Fine."
He grabbed her. Spun her. Bent her over the arm of the leather couch.
The cushion was cold against her cheek. Her dress was around her waist. Her thong was still pulled aside.
"I'm going to fuck you," he said. His voice was low. Rough. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk."
"Promises."
He shoved inside her.
She screamed.
Not in pain. In relief. In want. He filled her completely—stretched her, split her, made her feel every inch.
He didn't start slow.
He grabbed her hips and slammed into her. Again. Again. The slap of skin echoed off the walls, mixed with her moans, his grunts, the wet sound of her cunt taking him over and over.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
"You like that?"
"Yes—yes—"
"Tell me you like it."
"I love it. I love your cock. I love the way you fuck me."
He leaned over her. His breath was hot on her neck.
"You're mine," he said. "Do you understand? You're mine."
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
He reached around. Found her clit. Worked it in time with his thrusts.
She came with a scream that definitely woke the neighbors.
He kept going.
She came again.
Finally—finally—he drove deep and stopped. Held himself there, buried to the hilt, and came with a sound that was half-groan, half-prayer.
They stayed like that. Bent over the couch. Sweaty. Shaking. Connected.
"You're mine," he said again.
She turned her head. Looked at him over her shoulder.
"Yes," she said. "I'm yours."
He pulled out slowly. She whimpered at the loss.
He helped her straighten up. Turned her around. Kissed her forehead, her nose, her mouth.
"Stay," he said.
"What?"
"Stay tonight."
She looked at him. At his flushed face and wild eyes.
"I don't have any clothes," she said.
"I have clothes."
"I have class tomorrow."
"I'll drive you."
She hesitated.
He saw it. She watched him see it, watched his face fall a fraction before he schooled it back.
"You don't have to," he said. "I just—"
"Okay."
He blinked.
"Okay?"
"Okay," she said. "I'll stay."
He kissed her again. Slower this time. Tender.
There was a difference, she realized, between a man who wanted you in his bed and a man who wanted you in his life.
Leo, it turned out, was both.
He said it like a fact. Like the sky was blue and the sun rose in the east and she belonged to him. She should have bristled. Should have felt the cage door swing shut. But standing there, dress bunched at her waist and his come still cooling on her thighs, all she felt was a terrifying, bone-deep relief.
"Bedroom," she said.
"Thought you'd never ask."
He took her hand. His palm was rough and warm, calloused from the stick and the throttle, and it swallowed hers completely. They walked through the dark apartment—past the kitchen with its single clean mug on the rack, past the hallway with its framed print of an F-16 banking hard against a sunset—and she let herself be led.
The bedroom was small and neat. A queen bed with navy sheets. A dresser with a watch and a wallet and a set of keys arranged like an altar. No clutter. No mess. A man who lived like he might leave at any moment.
Leo let go of her hand. Reached behind his head. Pulled his shirt off in one motion and dropped it on the floor.
Luna stared.
She had seen him before. Felt him before. But seeing him now, here, in the low light from the window—she let herself look. The broad shoulders. The ladder of muscle down his stomach. The trail of dark hair disappearing into his boxers. A faint scar on his ribs, another on his shoulder. She wanted to trace them both and ask how he got them.
His jeans were already unbuttoned, and he pushed them down his legs with the same indifference he'd give a flight suit. They pooled at his ankles. He stepped out. Kicked them aside.
"Better," he said.
"Much."
He crossed the room, and she met him halfway. The kiss was different this time. Slower. Deeper. Not a question anymore, but an answer. His hands cupped her face, thumbs tracing her cheekbones, and she melted into him like water finding its level.
She had stayed here before, after the first night at the bar, when they were too drunk to drive and too tired to talk. That night had been easy. Casual. Two people sharing space because it was convenient.
This was not that.
This was her fingers finding the back of his neck and pulling him closer. This was his groan vibrating against her tongue. This was the slow, deliberate way he walked her backward until her calves hit the mattress, and the way he didn't push her down—just waited.
She pulled back. Reached for the hem of her dress.
Let him watch.
The white fabric slid up her thighs, over her hips, past her stomach. She lifted her arms and pulled it over her head, letting it drop to the floor beside his clothes. Then she stood there, in nothing but pink lace and ankle socks, and watched his face change.
He had felt this lingerie before. In the restaurant, under the table, when his fingers had found the soaked scrap of fabric and pushed it aside. He had known it existed. But seeing it—seeing her—was something else entirely.
"Fuck," he said. Just that. Just one syllable, dragged out of him like a confession.
"Good?"
"Luna."
"What?"
He stepped closer. His hands found her waist, fingers spanning the narrowest part of her, and she felt small and delicate and powerful all at once.
"You have no idea," he said. "No fucking idea what you look like right now."
"Tell me."
"Beautiful."
"That's boring."
His eyes flashed. "The pink is unfair. You knew it would be. You picked it out on purpose, didn't you?"
"Maybe."
"The bra makes your tits look—" He stopped. Shook his head. "And the thong. The fucking thong. I've been thinking about it since the parking lot."
"Since the parking lot?"
"Since the first night. Since I felt it through your jeans and imagined what you'd look like without them."
Her breath caught. His hands slid down her hips, over her thighs, and she felt her cunt clench around nothing. Empty. Needy. His cock was straining against his boxers, thick and obvious, and she couldn't stop staring.
"You're hard," she said.
"I've been hard since you knocked over that water glass."
"That's not my fault."
"It's entirely your fault."
She reached for him. He caught her wrist. Brought it to his mouth. Kissed her palm, then each finger, slow and deliberate.
"You promised me something," she said.
"Did I?"
"In the truck. Before." She stepped closer, until her chest was pressed against his, until she could feel the heat of him through the lace. "You said you'd fuck me until I forgot my own name."
"And?"
"I still remember it."
His grin was sharp and wolfish.
"We'll have to fix that."
She pushed him.
His back hit the mattress with a grunt, and she didn't wait—just climbed on top, straddling his hips, her knees sinking into the navy sheets. He was so warm under her. So solid. His hands found her thighs and gripped, fingers digging into flesh.
She leaned down. Kissed him. Bit his lower lip.
He groaned. His hands slid up her back, fumbled with the clasp of her bra. Two tries. Three. She laughed against his mouth.
"Need help?"
"Shut up."
The clasp gave. She sat up, let the straps slide down her arms, and tossed the bra somewhere behind her. His eyes dropped to her chest. Stayed there.
"You're staring."
"I'm appreciating."
"Same thing."
"No." His thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts, feather-light. "Staring is what the creep at the bar did. Appreciating is—" He cupped her, lifted her, ran his tongue along the swell of one breast. "—this."
She shuddered.
His mouth found her nipple. Sucked. Bit. She braced her hands on his chest and rocked her hips, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his boxers. Clawed at his pecs. Dug her nails in, just a little, just enough to make him hiss.
"You like that?"
"Yes."
"You like being on top?"
"Right now I like being anywhere that lets me feel you."
He released her breast. Grabbed her hips. Pulled her down hard, grinding up against her in slow, filthy circles. The friction was maddening. The cotton of his boxers was soaked through with her, and she could feel every ridge and vein, every inch she wanted inside her.
"Leo—"
"What?"
"I need—"
"Say it."
She hated him. She loved him. She grabbed his boxers and yanked, and he lifted his hips to help, and then they were gone and his cock was in her hand.
She stroked it once. Twice. Watched his head fall back on the pillow.
"You're so hard," she said.
"For you."
"Just me?"
"Only you."
She lifted herself up. Rubbed the head of him through her folds, slick and teasing, just enough to make him groan.
"Luna."
"Mm?"
"Stop teasing."
"You promised."
"I'll make good on it. I swear. Just—"
She sank down on him.
Both of them moaned. She was so full—stretched and split and exactly right. She sat there for a moment, breathing, adjusting, watching his face contort with the effort of holding still.
"You're so tight," he said.
"I know."
"I'm not going to last."
"You will."
She started to move.
Slow at first. A roll of her hips, a lift and a drop. Learning the angle. Finding the rhythm. His hands found her breasts, cupped them, thumbed her nipples while she rode him.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"That's it. Take what you need."
She did.
The rhythm built. Her hips found a pace, hard and fast, slapping against his. The headboard knocked against the wall, a steady thump-thump-thump, and she didn't care. Didn't care if the neighbors heard. Didn't care if the whole fucking building heard. Let them.
Leo's hand slid between them. Found her clit. Worked it in circles while she rode him.
"Come on," he said. "Come on, Luna. Let me feel it."
"I'm close—"
"Come for me."
She broke.
It crashed through her like a wave. Her hips stuttered, her back arched, and she came with his name on her lips, a broken sound that was half-scream, half-prayer.
He flipped her.
One motion. One smooth, powerful roll that put her on her back with him on top, still buried deep inside her.
"My turn," he said.
And then he fucked her.
Not gentle. Not slow. He grabbed her ankles and pushed her knees to her chest and pounded into her like a man with something to prove. The angle was brutal. Perfect. Every thrust hit something that made her see stars.
"Leo—"
"Still remember your name?"
"What?"
"Your name. Do you still remember it?"
"Leah—" She gasped. "Leah Hartley—"
"Good."
He fucked her harder.
"But you go by Luna now."
"Leo—"
"Luna." He leaned over her, sweaty and wild, eyes locked on hers. "Luna. My Luna."
She came again. Harder.
He followed a moment later, driving deep and holding, spilling inside her with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Eventually, he pulled out. Rolled off her. Both of them breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.
"So," she said.
"So."
"Did I forget my name?"
He turned his head. Looked at her.
"You said it twice."
"So did you."
"So did I."
She laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised. He laughed too, and then he reached over and pulled her against his chest and kissed the top of her head.
"Stay," he said.
She already had.