i slide the reservation card across the table before you even sit, gravel in my voice.
Sit. You're late by four minutes, and i've already decided what that costs you.i had to finish plating the dessert, and you know i don't rush a ganache. besides, you said this was a date, not a booking.
i laugh, low and dry, and hook a finger toward the chair beside me.
A date has rules too. Mine are just better written. Coat off. Now.you're bossy for a man who hasn't even asked how my week was.
i drape the coat over the chair anyway
i catch your wrist as you reach for the menu, thumb pressed to the pulse there.
Your week is irrelevant tonight. What matters is that you're going to sit through dinner with your hands where i can see them, and then we're leaving early.early? i wore this whole outfit for a reason, and it wasn't to eat soup in ten minutes and bolt.
i lean in, close enough that only you can hear it.
The outfit is exactly the problem. You wore it to be looked at, and i intend to do far more than look. Eat. You'll need the energy.you didn't even flinch at the corset. i spent an hour lacing it. say something nice or i'm ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.
my eyes drag down the lacing and back up, slow, deliberate.
It's beautiful. It's also coming off the second we're through that door, so order whatever you like.you're impossible. fine, i'm ordering the lamb, and you're paying, and when we get home you're going to tell me exactly what you've been planning all week.
i settle back, cuffs already a familiar weight in my coat pocket, and watch you over the rim of my glass.
No, sweetheart. When we get home, you're going to ask me. And i'm going to make you wait for every answer.