Chapter 34: The Restaurant A2M
The dim light of the restaurant booth was a world away from the raw intimacy of her brownstone. Here, the air smelled of garlic, roasted tomatoes, and the wax of their single candle. A half-empty bottle of Barolo sat between them, and the remains of their meal—braised short ribs, bitter greens—were pushed aside. The soft jazz from the speakers was just loud enough to cloak a secret.
Channah watched him over the rim of her wineglass. Her foot, free of its shoe, traced a slow path up his calf beneath the table. “Do you remember,” she said, her voice low, “that awful little dive near campus with the jukebox?”
Ryan’s smile was a slow curl. “Where you taught me to play pool. And cheated.”
“I did not cheat. I utilized psychological warfare.” She took a sip, her eyes never leaving his. “You still think about that night.”
“I think about what came after.” His hand found her ankle, his thumb pressing into the delicate bone. “In my car. The windows fogged up. You were so fucking loud.”
A flush crept up her neck. “You’re trying to embarrass me.”
“Is it working?”
Instead of answering, she gestured to the tiramisu the waiter had just delivered, a decadent square dusted with cocoa. “Share with me.”
He slid the plate toward the center. As he picked up his dessert fork, she moved. It wasn’t a sudden gesture, but a deliberate, fluid shift. She rose slightly from her seat and then settled into his lap, her back to the table, facing him. The heavy velvet curtain of the booth swayed, enclosing them in a deeper pocket of shadow. Her skirt, a soft black wool, was already bunched around her waist as she settled over him. She’d been bare beneath it the entire meal.
“Channah,” he breathed, a warning and a plea.
“Quiet,” she whispered, her lips at his ear. Her hand slipped between them, working his belt and zipper with efficient grace. She freed his cock, already rigid and eager. She positioned herself, guiding him to her opening. She was soaked, her wetness a stark truth against the formality of the setting. “Just relax, professor. Enjoy your dessert.”
She sank down onto him in one slow, excruciating inch, her cunt stretching to take him, gloriously tight and hot. A barely audible sigh escaped her. He was buried inside her, under the table, in a semi-public restaurant. She began to move, a subtle, rolling rise and fall of her hips. Her expression remained serene, as if they were discussing the wine.
“The tiramisu is excellent,” she murmured, her voice only shaking slightly with each quiet descent. “Not too sweet.”
Ryan’s hands gripped her thighs, his knuckles white. He could only stare at her face, at the faint sheen of sweat on her upper lip, the dilation of her pupils in the candlelight. Every nerve ending was focused on the exquisite, hidden friction. He thrust upward to meet her, and she gasped, biting her lower lip.
“Don’t,” she commanded softly, stilling him. “My pace.” She continued the gentle, maddening ride, each small movement dragging her clit against the rough fabric of his trousers. She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against his chest, and nuzzled his neck. “You feel even better than you did on my stairs. Deeper.”
He could feel the telltale throbbing begin at the base of his spine, the coil tightening too fast. “I’m close,” he gritted out.
“I know.” She lifted herself off him, the loss of her heat a shock. Still in his lap, she turned, presenting her back to him. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes glinting with dark intent. She reached back, spread herself, and guided him again—not to her welcoming cunt, but lower, to the tighter, darker pucker of her ass, still loose and slick from their earlier violation.
“Here,” she breathed. “Come in here.”
She impaled herself on him backwards, taking his cock into her ass with a single, slick, devastating slide. The fit was snug, impossibly intimate. She braced her hands on the table edge, her head dropping forward. Her rhythm changed, becoming shorter, sharper, more frantic. Each tiny thrust rocked the table; their silverware chimed softly against the plates.
Ryan gripped her hips, helping her, his own hips pumping up to meet her desperate motions. The sound was filthy, a wet, rhythmic smack of skin on skin muffled by their clothes and the curtain. He could see the faces of other diners in the ambient light beyond their velvet cocoon, oblivious.
“Oh, fuck, Ryan, your cock,” she whimpered, her composure shredding. “It’s so deep in my ass. I’m so full of you.” Her words were a hot, obscene whisper in the semi-dark.
He was on the verge, a tidal wave about to break. Sensing it, she pulled off him again, the air cool on his wet skin. She turned fully in his lap, facing him once more, her face a mask of primal need. She dropped her head and took him into her mouth, sucking fiercely, noisily. She tasted of salt and musk and her own unique darkness. She deep-throated him, gagging lightly, then pulled back to swirl her tongue around the head, coated in the combined essence of her body.
“Now,” she panted, pulling her mouth away but holding his gaze. She opened her mouth wide, tongue out, eyes locked on his. “Give it to me. On my face. I want to wear you out of here.”
Her command unleashed him. He fisted his own cock, pumping hard and fast. With a ragged groan he stifled against her hair, he came. Thick, white ropes of cum jetted across her face. The first pulse striped her cheek. The second landed on her parted lips and tongue. The third splashed across the bridge of her nose. More spattered her chin and the delicate skin beneath her eyes. She moaned, a low, satisfied sound, her eyes fluttering shut as the warm spend painted her.
She held perfectly still as the last pulses dribbled onto his hand. Then, slowly, deliberately, she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting the salty, bitter load. She swallowed. She opened her eyes. Cum gleamed on her pale skin in the candlelight, a brutal, beautiful badge.
She smiled, a real, easy smile that crinkled the corners of her sticky eyes. Using the edge of the white tablecloth, she blotted her chin carefully, leaving faint streaks. She did not wipe her face clean. She slid from his lap, straightened her skirt, and settled back into her own chair as if returning from the restroom.
She picked up her fork, scooped a bite of tiramisu, and brought it to her mouth, cum and cocoa mingling. She ate it. She took a long sip of wine.
“So,” she said, her voice perfectly steady, only a slight huskiness betraying her. “Where were we? The psychological warfare of pool, I believe.”
Ryan, still trying to catch his breath, his softening cock tucked away, could only stare. The woman across from him was a stranger and the most familiar person in the world. She was a vision of debauched grace, his cum drying on her skin, discussing their youth as if her heart wasn’t hammering against her ribs. The rest of the meal stretched before them, a delicious, unbearable torment. The real conversation, he knew, was only just beginning. It was written in the lines of her face, in the evidence she wore without shame, in the decades of silence that had finally ended.