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“Isn’t this too short? Be honest.”
This is the third time you’ve asked, though Marius notes that you’re careful to change your wording each time so you don’t sound redundant. He glances over to your seat, his eyes dragging up your body slowly. He doesn’t need to hide the way he checks you out this time around; unlike the first time, you’re basically begging him to take a longer look at you. He thinks that’s cute, the way you want his eyes on you constantly despite him already devoting all his attention to you throughout this entire car ride.
After lingering a few extra seconds on your hips and chest, Marius raises an eyebrow at you, “You look great, jiě jie. Don’t you believe me?” His hands reach across the middle to grab your hand, rubbing his thumb in circles over your palm, “How could I not like something that you wear?”
“That’s not what I asked, did I?” you smile, enjoying the warmth from his fingers. Marius had sent over your outfit hours earlier: a short, skimpy number that, while flattering your curves amply, barely covered any of your privates. And with the added pressure of the Pax Group president being your date and a newly-opened, high-end restaurant being your destination, you really can’t afford to bend down and accidentally flash anyone. That’s your main worry, one that Marius has skillfully avoided answering during . . . this limo ride. Yes, you’re in a limo.
As long as Marius isn’t pressed about your outfit, you suppose it’s fine. He’s matched his attire to yours, his belt adding an accent color to his black slacks and his slightly unbuttoned shirt. It’s hard not to stare at how large his chest looks under the silk collar, how you can see a tease of his torso between the undone buttons at the top — those muscled ridges, meeting under the dip of those prominent clavicles. And if you move your eyes a little to the side, you can see his forearms gloriously revealed by rolled-up sleeves, muscular and taut. They flex with each circle of his thumb, subtle movements that make your mind wonder what other motions he could do with his fingers to show off those sexy veins . . .
Wow. Hold your horses. As much as you want to be touched relentlessly by the handsome man beside you at this very moment, you have to push those thoughts aside for now. The restaurant you’re headed to is one founded by a recent graduate of the new Pax Culinary Kickstarter Program, which aims to help up-and-coming chefs through their studies up to the establishment of their own restaurant. Expensive, yes, but an endeavor that Marius heavily believes in — helping young adults like himself achieve their dreams. So jumping your date’s bones right now (or anytime soon, really) would just be unprofessional and wildly inappropriate at this point.
Marius taps you out of your thoughts, dragging your hands towards his own so you lean closer, “It’s the perfect length. Trust me.” His soft words send a tingling warmth up your neck, and you concededly sigh as the ride comes to an end. Outside the window, you can see a two-story building that looks artistically modern, bordering on minimalism. Silver accents curl up the frames of the restaurant, reflecting the colors of the strip as bursts of watercolor, complementing the gray tones of the wall beautifully. You wonder if the Pax program has anything to do directly with the infrastructure of the restaurant: the entire building feels akin to the ‘Z’ chain Marius always sports, classy and simple.
It’s even brighter when Marius opens the door and shows you reality. You keep your eyes trained on the pathway up to the restaurant as he takes your hand, helping you step out of the car. His palm slips to the small of your back after he shuts the door, warm and steady, just like his soothing voice in your ear, “It’s nice, right jiě jie? The owner also paints in their free time, taking lots of inspiration from the art deco movement.” Your thoughts stray to the graded portraits indicative of that era, the gold-laced patterns and cut corners, the classy abstractness to it all. In response, you nod slowly, and Marius chuckles as you enter the building.
The outside was deceptively simple. Inside, round tables and circular booths revolve around a large fountain, specks of water refracting light from a central, golden chandelier. It’s very reminiscent of the “roaring twenties”, filled to the brim with playful Gatsby splendor. The waiters are all dressed in vests and bowties, attending to tables taken by dressed-up couples and friends. It’s quiet and formal here, and you irritatedly note the longer length of the dresses worn by other diners, angrily poking your elbow into Marius’ side, “I look out of place.”
“Only because of how pretty you are. You’re the most attractive person in this room,” Marius replies coolly, his flirtatious nature rippling under his words. You look away in embarrassment as a host approaches the two of you and leads you upstairs. The second floor is markedly less crowded but still adorned with semi-circle (or rather, quarter-circle) booths and statuesque pieces in the corners. You’re guided to one tucked to the side, and Marius slips in after you.
“Your waiter will be with you in a moment.” Seconds later, it’s only you and Marius, menus laying open on the table. He grins at you, his eyebrows raising eagerly, “Nice, huh?”
“Don’t take credit from the owner,” you grin, raising a hand to playfully push Marius away. He catches your wrist mid-motion and uses the momentum to bring you close, tugging you close to his chest, “Sorry, jiě jie. I’m just trying to impress you.” That familiar warmth seeps up your skin, a blush settling onto your features.
“Hey! I’ll be your waiter today, name’s on the tag. What can I get you two to drink?”
Holy fuck. You jump apart from Marius immediately as your waiter smiles at you. He’s tall and boyish, a bright, mischievous grin dancing on his freckled face, and the black-and-white uniform fits his body snugly. As you smooth out your dress, Marius clears his throat, “Your best Nebbiolo. Please.”
“And for the lovely lady?” The waiter gleams at you as you peruse the back, trying to find alcohol you recognize. After a moment, you point out your drink and he jots it down, “A great choice for someone as stunning as you. Your boyfriend’s a lucky guy, huh?”
You laugh awkwardly at the joke, but Marius simply places his hand on your knee before smiling tightly, “Yeah, I am.” Your eyes widen at his lie as the waiter gives him a strange look, and once he dashes off, you nudge Marius with your elbow softly, “What if he finds out you’re the Pax president?”
“So?”
“So?” you whisper-screech, glancing down at your leg in alarm. His hand still rests there comfortably, readjusted to rest on your lower thigh. You groan, “He’ll think we’re dating! That’s like . . . scandal material, I don’t know!”
Marius chuckles cockily, his eyebrows raising in amusement, “Let him. It’ll be true soon, anyway.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” He sighs as his other hand entwines with your own, “I can clear it up privately if you want.” After a second, you shake your head, murmuring a soft ‘it’s okay’ before turning your attention onto the approaching figure. Your waiter has returned, glasses in hand. After flashing another youthful grin your way, he pours out your drinks, leaving the bottle of Nebbiolo behind with a card slipped under it, and whips out a pad of paper, “Are you ready to order?”
Marius’ grip on your thigh tightens slightly, his veins popping over his tendons. His other hand drags down the coarse surface of the paper, resting at a meal, “I’ll have the wagyu ribeye for this course, but for first and second rounds . . . “ You zone out as he starts listing off various cuts of meat and preparation styles of vegetables for the five-course selection this restaurant boasts, your eyes lingering on the minimalistic rings circling his fingers. You hadn’t noticed them before, but with the firm hold he has on you now, it’s impossible to ignore the cool silver pressing into your skin. Reprieve comes when Marius finishes and glances over at you, raising a brow, “Your turn.”
You point to a few items, essentially copying Marius’ course plan but subbing out some meals for your preferences. The waiter jots them down, winking at you as he waves his pen with a flourish, “Excellent choices, ma’am. You must have quite the tongue, hm?”
Another awkward moment. You acquiesce with an uncomfortable smile, nodding when he rushes off again. The moment he disappears, Marius frowns at you, “He’s hitting on you.”
“He is not hitting on me, he’s being nice.” You’re not stupid — you know there’s something up with the waiter’s comments — but you’d like to see how Marius sees the situation. He seems irritated with your response, “Who talks like that? ‘Quite the tongue’?”
You roll your eyes before reaching for the card under the bottle, flipping it over and finding a scribbled number and message.
XXX-XXX-XXXX ~ If you get tired of your boyfriend, I’d love to get to know you better.
Yikes. You try to tuck the card away but Marius is quicker, grabbing it from your hands and turning it over, “Are you going to deny it now?” Instead of words, you reply with a disinterested huff, and Marius’ jaw tenses with his grip, “Don’t tell me you like the attention, hm? You’re into guys like that?”
Something about the naive judgment under his teasing words makes your jaw clench. You like how Marius gets when he sees you close to another man (especially you tease him about it), but making you sound like some sort of attention whore agitates you. It’s not like Marius and you are any sort of item, refusing to cross that tentative boundary . . .
“Maybe I do, Marius!” you scoff, gripping his bicep to push him off. You know your words don’t make sense, you’re not sure why you’re trying to egg him on, “It’s nice to see someone so forward.” A blatant lie. You only really have eyes for one person.
He doesn’t budge, keeping his grip steady as he moves closer. In a swift motion, he shifts your thigh over his own, spreading you wider, and you gasp as he leans closer to you, “Am I not forward enough for you, jiě jie? Inviting you out for a late dinner, gifting you such a slutty dress,” — he skates his hand up to drag his fingers right under the edge of the cloth —, “can you not see my intentions clearly tonight?”
Intentions. The words make your breath catch in your throat, and instead of answering, you reach for your drink and sip slowly. You do like how Marius chases you, but he’s never said things this explicitly before. And you can’t hide it: something about him calling your outfit slutty makes you feel more giddy than offended. As heat begins to spark in your stomach, Marius moves his fingers against your skin, massaging your inner thigh, dangerously close to the apex of your legs. His lips graze the edge of your ear, his words a husky whisper slinking along your skin.
“If you like attention, qīn ài*, I’ll shower you with it.”
His teeth catch your earlobe, nipping and sucking it softly, as his hand runs along the joint of your pelvis, moving your dress further upwards. Your eyes are wide as you glance around the restaurant, mentally praying that no one can see. The curve of the booth keeps your lower halves hidden from others, though all the diners seem preoccupied with their own conversations. Marius hikes your dress up enough to expose the band of your panties, his eyes dilating at the thin lace teasing your skin. His voice is octaves lower when he speaks in your ear, “Were you expecting something to happen today, hm?” His tongue traces your jaw, wet and warm, and you shiver as you hum with denial. At your response, he sighs amusedly and tugs your skin between his teeth softly, “No? Looking this sexy without any lewd reason?”
You hold Marius’ wrist to pause his movements, trying not to think of the way his muscles flex under your touch, “You’re the one who sent this dress ov-oh!” A sharp gasp escapes you as Marius’ fingers make contact with the skin of your mons, trailing down before reaching the tip of your slit. You tighten your jaw as his smirk widens into a devilish veneer, and you shiver as Marius moves over the hood of your clit.
“Marius, not here . . . ,” you plead, but to no avail. Marius curls ever so slightly to rub at your clit, massaging the bud steadily as your slick coats his fingers. And you, hypnotized at the sight of his knuckles, flexing prominently, at the slender joints bending with each of his touches. Struggling to keep quiet as he slides lower, his wrist turning as he prods at your entrance, your breath ragged and cheeks hot. Marius raises an eyebrow, his expression instantly clouding with lust, “Jiejie, let go of my wrist. Don’t you want me to go deeper?”
Your resulting moan is what encourages him, and he pushes two fingers into your soaked pussy. His rings drag along the top of your walls, and you whimper just loud enough for Marius to tug you closer and kiss you quiet. His lips are soft against yours, molding with each push and pull. Your eyes flutter shut as he entices your lips apart, his tongue tasting your own. Each time he breaks for air, his fingers move faster inside of you, stretching you out as he thrusts firmly. Against his lips, you whisper, “You can’t, not . . . in public.”
He stares at you intently as he moves his head down, licking a stripe up your neck, and he speaks just as he curls his long fingers up perfectly, “You’re so tight. Don’t deny how much you like this, baby.” His thumb flicks your clit and you groan out his name as he hits your nerves delightfully. Pleasure shoots through your body, your toes curling in your heels as your back arches sensually, your mouth open in silent bliss. You know Marius likes your reaction, the way you can’t hold back your want, and he revels in his arousal-coated skin as he fingers you.
And then your heart stutters when he shifts just slightly away, speaking with a smug smile, “Our waiter is coming back. Let’s give him a show, hm?”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit! You try to close your legs, but Marius holds you in place over his thigh, still relentlessly pumping his fingers. The waiter steps up to the front of your table, his grin widening when he scans your table and spots his card missing, “I put your orders in, but I figure I’d check if you needed anything else. And I do mean anything.” He polishes his question with a wink at you, but immediately falters into surprise at your state: heaving, flushed, and pained, “Ma’am, are you okay?”
“I’m . . . ngh,” you whine, tightening around Marius’ fingers further. The waiter moves to the side of your table, his arms outstretched slightly, “Maybe I should take you aside and check on y-”
“I got it handled.” Your date’s voice is sharp and mean, and his eyes are narrowed with annoyance, “Why don’t you stop hitting on my girlfriend and do your job properly?” His words just barely break through your cloudy mind, your new title branded in your head. His girlfriend. His. Damn, you should’ve made Marius jealous sooner. At least you get to experience this now: uninhibited pleasure, brought on by his lithe fingers bending within you, his rings pressing along your flesh exquisitely, the pad of his thumb rubbing your sensitive clit again and again.
That’s when the waiter takes a step too far, his eyes darting down past the edge of the table, his ears turning pink at Marius’ hand flexing under your panties. Through your blurred vision, you can make out his mouth opening slightly before closing, and before you can look away in humiliation, he excuses himself and dashes away. And he’s gone.
Marius latches onto your collarbone the moment the waiter is out of sight, lewdly sucking as you grind onto his hand, “Are you close? You’re bucking against my fingers.” He grins as your clit hits his palm with each pull of your hips, as your quiet moans turn breathy and high-pitched, and he doesn’t stop when he tugs you to his chest with his other hand and whispers against your lips for you to let go. And you do, gasping his name desperately as you come undone on his fingers, fluttering around his rings in ecstasy. Gripping his shirt for support, wrinkling the fabric as you ride his hand, twitching as you fall from the stars, breathing hard . . .
As you rest against the cushioned walls of the booth, Marius slips his hand away and adjusts your panties before patting the area twice, almost as if he’s praising you. Then, he catches your gaze before bringing those guilty fingers to his lips and tasting your saline slick, humming in approval, “What a great appetizer, right?” God. His joke is too much to bear, and with your whole face tight with shameful heat, you dig your head into his chest. He uses his clean hand to caress your hair softly, twirling it between his fingers as he chuckles.
Another waiter comes by with your food minutes later, apologizing for the delay. It’s delicious.