“Just your interest?”
I gave him a teasing grin. “Yeah. You could say I’m interested, at the very least.”
“And here I thought I’d aroused a bit more than mere interest in you. I guess I’ll have to step up my efforts.” The look he gave me was scorching, virulent, and laced with erotic promise.
I shivered, sucked in a deep breath. “You should do that. You’re slacking, Roth.”
Evening had fallen by the time we had the boat docked, and as we entered the towering glass and steel canyons of downtown Manhattan, darkness was spreading thickening shadows between the buildings. We still had the Bentley’s top down, so I was chilled by the cool in the night air, goose bumps covering my skin. Roth noticed this, and as we stopped at a red light, he touched a button so the top unfolded and slid into place.
“You looked cold,” he said, eyeing me.
“What gave it away?”
His tongue slid over his lower lip. “Your nipples. They’re poking through the dress. Teasing me. Standing up hard. Begging for my mouth.”
I glanced down and saw that, sure enough, my nipples were peaked, showing clearly. Roth’s hand left the gear shifter and drifted up, pinched my left nipple. I bit my lip to keep from gasping, but Roth only pinched harder and rolled it between his finger and thumb, making me squirm in my seat, his touch verging on painful. When he increased his pressure, taking the sensation past pleasant and into outright uncomfortable, I flinched away, letting out a breath.
“That hurt, Valentine.”
“Just making sure I still have your interest,” he said. His hand settled on my thigh, just above my knee. “Do I have it?”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “I’m interested.”
He glanced away, back to the road as he made a left turn, touching the brakes as traffic slowed ahead of us. We were in Little Italy, I realized belatedly. He was taking us somewhere specific, some restaurant he knew, I guessed. My capacity for clear thought faded as Roth’s hand slid up my bare skin, fingers grazing my inner thigh, pushing up the hem of my dress.
“Take off your underwear,” Roth said.
I glanced at him, blinking, and then looked out the windows. We were surrounded by cars, stopped at a traffic light. There were people on the sidewalk and a cube van was idling beside us, the driver smoking a cigarette and glancing down at me. Watching Roth’s hand climb up my thigh.
“That driver beside us is watching,” I protested.
“So keep your dress down while you take them off. I told you, I’m not going to share you. Not so much as a glimpse, not with anyone. But I do want those panties in my hand in the next thirty seconds.” His voice was hard and low, demanding.
I tugged the hem of my dress down, and then lifted my hips, hooking my fingers into the elastic of my underwear through the cotton of the dress. Wiggling my hips, I managed to slide the black bikini-cut underwear down past my hips, and then was able to reach up under my dress and pull them off completely. I handed them to Roth, who glanced up at the driver of the truck to the left of us. The driver was entranced, staring down at us, not paying attention to the fact that the light had turned; he’d watched the entire performance, I realized, blushing.
Roth held my underwear to his nose and sniffed, staring up at the driver with a grin. I covered my face with my hands, mortified. Horns blared, and the driver of the truck started, surprised, and jerked the truck into motion.
“Goddamn you, Roth. Was that really necessary?”
He stuffed the underwear into the inside pocket of his blazer, grinning at me. “Yes. It was.”
“Why?”
“Because it amused me. He wanted you, Kyrie. Did you see the look in his eyes when you handed me your panties? He wanted them for himself. He wanted you for himself.” He replaced his hand on my thigh, higher this time, fingers creeping up under the hem of my dress. “And I, being a possessive caveman, wanted to prove a point. You’re mine.”
“I’m embarrassed, Roth. He watched me take off my underwear. You sniffed them. It was horrible.”
Roth traced his fingers up the line of my closed thighs, demanding entrance. I parted my legs, just a tiny bit, and his middle finger found my core, found it wet and hot and waiting. “They smelled of your desire, Kyrie. Like you. When you part your thighs for me, I can smell you. You want me. You want me to touch you, don’t you?” He gunned the engine, darting us forward and sliding to the left between the cube van and a taxi, then back across to the lane we had just left, his finger never ceasing its slow penetration of my cleft as he wove through New York traffic. “Don’t you, Kyrie? I could make you come by the time we get to the restaurant, don’t you think?”
“I’m—I’m sure you could.” I gripped the armrests and pressed my head back against the seat. “Are you going to make me come while that driver watches?”
Roth rumbled in his chest. “Now, that would be fun. I think I might just do that. Good idea.”
“No, don’t!”
“Why not?”
I swallowed hard as he brought his long, thick middle finger up against my clit. “Because…it’s embarrassing. Degrading.”
“He won’t see anything except my hand under your dress. You’re completely covered, Kyrie.”
“But he’ll know what you’re doing.”
“Exactly.”
I tried to push his hand away, but he was relentless, and he had me writhing at that point, nearing the edge with slow, precise circles, too far gone to let him stop, to want him to stop, but just aware enough to be mortified and adrenalized by that same embarrassment, which made the sense of impending climax all the more intense.
“Roth….”
“Not yet, Kyrie. Don’t come yet.” He continued his strokes around my clit, bringing me closer with every circle.
“I’m there, Roth.”
“Not yet.” He slowed the Bentley, and I managed a glance to the left, saw the eyes-wide expression of the driver as my hips rolled with Roth’s hand buried under the edge of my dress. I arched my back as I approached the crest, biting my lip, unable to stop a moan from escaping.
When I was a split second from coming, Roth removed his hand and swung the car around a corner and into an alley. I slumped down into the seat, shoving my dress in place, breathing hard and struggling for composure as Roth parked beside a dumpster and smoothly slid out of the car. My hands trembled, my thighs quivered, and my core ached. How did he always know when I was a breath away from climaxing? He did, though. He knew, and he was becoming an expert at bringing me to that edge and stopping just before I came. It was maddening.
I clenched my fists to stop my hands from shaking, and then forced myself out of the car, smoothing my dress around my knees. Roth held his arm out to me, and I took it, still weak-kneed from my near-orgasm.
“You’re an asshole,” I muttered.
“Do I have your interest, Kyrie?”
“I was kidding, Roth. You have a hell of a lot more than my interest.” I focused on breathing, on pushing away the ache between my thighs.
“Oh, I know.”
“Then why punish me?”
He pulled open the door, holding it for me. The doorway was narrow, and low, leading to an even narrower black-and-white tiled floor, the walls lined with old photographs of New York in the ’30s and ’40s—a variety of famous personages and milk delivery trucks and Frank Sinatra with his trademark grin and cigarette. The hallway opened into a tiny Italian diner, round tables with iconic red-and-white-checked tablecloths and tall bottles of house wine.
Roth leaned down to whisper in my ear as he led me between tables to sit at a booth in a shadowy corner. “It’s not punishment, love. It’s foreplay.”
“Foreplay?” I tucked my dress under my thighs and slid across the cracked vinyl seat. “Keeping me on the edge of orgasm isn’t foreplay, it’s cruelty.”
Instead of taking the seat across from me, Roth moved in beside me, tucking his hand between my thighs with proprietary intimacy
. He grabbed my hand and brought my palm to rest on his erection. “I know all too well how painful it is to be constantly aroused, Kyrie. I’ve been hard for you since the moment I woke up. Since the moment I met you, honestly.” He put his mouth to my ear, grinding into my hand. “I’m always hard for you, Kyrie. I ache for you every moment of every day. I wake up at night, having dreamed of burying my cock inside you, and when I wake up I’m mere moments from coming all over myself like a horny teenager. I’m desperate to be inside you, Kyrie. This torture is for both of us.”
“Signor Roth!” A portly Italian man with salt-and-pepper hair and a brilliantly white smile greeted Roth with an effusive two-handed handshake, spouting off an incomprehensible stream of rapid-fire Italian.
Roth, of course, responded in fluent Italian, then turned to me and gestured at the proprietor. “Kyrie St. Claire, this is my very good friend, Marco. Marco, this is Kyrie.”
“It is my very great pleasure to meet you! Welcome, welcome!” Marco shook my hand as he had Roth’s, one pudgy hand on top of mine, another beneath, clasping and shaking until my arm went numb. “The house special, signore?”
“Surprise us, Marco. Wine, of course.” Roth grinned at me, holding my gaze.
I felt his hand slide between my thighs, turn to cup my mound beneath my dress, his actions hidden beneath the table, and then he slipped a finger between my folds and held it there, unmoving. He lifted one eyebrow in a clear challenge, or a warning. Don’t make a sound, the arched brow said. Don’t give anything away.
I in turn gave him a daring smile, palming his tented jeans. Each of us had one hand on the table, the other hidden beneath. Marco vanished, shouting through into the kitchen.
Roth held my gaze, curling his finger inside me, grazing my still-sensitive nub. “I hope you like Italian,” he said conversationally.
“It’s my favorite.” I slid my hand up and down the iron length of his denim-clad erection.
“Good, because when you eat at Marco’s, you eat until you’re bursting.”
“Well, I’m ravenous,” I said, working his length slowly with my fingers. “Simply famished.”
Roth’s eyes narrowed, and his finger matched my tempo, stroking me with slow, teasing touches. “Me, too.”
Marco’s arrival precluded more awkward innuendo, and he set down a dark, dusty bottle of wine, a carafe, and two glasses. “A very fine ’75 cabernet, signore. I’ve been saving it for a very special time, and I think this is it.”
He uncorked the bottle, then wiped the rim with a cloth napkin. There was a metallic screen filter at the mouth of the carafe, and Marco very slowly and carefully poured the ruby liquid through the screen and into the carafe, leaving an inch or so of thick sediment at the bottom of the bottle and a scrim of sediment on the filter. This done, he tilted one of the glasses almost horizontal and poured a small amount of wine, then handed the glass to Roth, who swirled it several times before taking a small sip.
“That’s fantastic, Marco. Thank you.” Roth handed the glass back to Marco with an appreciative nod.
You wouldn’t know, judging from the impassive expression on Roth’s face, that he was rhythmically curling his finger inside me, brushing against the very tip of my clit, sending bolt after bolt of pleasure through me. I had his erection pinched between my finger and thumb, but knew if I moved my arm the motion would be apparent, so I merely squeezed him up near the tip. It was a game, and I was losing. All he had to do was crook his finger, and spasms shot through me. It took every ounce of strength and control I possessed to not move, to not gasp, to act normal as Marco filled both glasses halfway and set them before us. He bustled away, but before I could open my mouth to ask Roth to stop, Marco was back with a plate of garlic bread and two small side salads.
Roth picked up his salad fork and dug in, while I opted for a slice of bread. Both of us used Marco’s absence as an excuse to ramp up the intensity of our game. He slid a second finger into me and pressed the tips against my clit and stroked slow and soft, while I dug my hand, thumb and forefinger first, between his jeans and boxers to clutch bare skin. I squeezed him hard, once, twice, and then loosened my grip and slid my fist down, then gave him an involuntarily hard clench as he slid the slick nub of my clit between his two fingers and tugged on it, making my entire body jerk with the onset of climax.
I swallowed the bite of bread and took another, chewing slowly to disguise my inner turmoil. The bread was actually the most delicious garlic bread I’d ever had, at once soft enough to melt in my mouth yet crunchy at the crust, buttery and bursting with flavor. I washed it down with a sip of the wine, which was unlike anything I’d ever tasted it. I only took the most conservative of sips, yet the flavor exploded in my mouth, washing over my tongue, a flavor so thick you could almost chew it, the liquid sliding down my throat and warming my entire body as it went down.
So, no. Distracting myself with the food didn’t work at all. I was still barely keeping control of my body, which was going haywire, the effort necessary to hold back my orgasm making the need to come all the more potent. The question was, should I tell him how close I was, knowing he’d stop? Or should I keep up the ruse as long as possible, and run the risk of coming in public, possibly loudly and embarrassingly?
Roth reached in front of me, leaning close to whisper in my ear as he grabbed a piece of bread. “You’re close, aren’t you, baby? I know you are. I can feel your tight little pussy clenching around my fingers.” He slid his fingers into my channel, and I nearly aspirated my bite of salad, a wrenching tremor gripping me. “I should stop now, shouldn’t I? I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself in my friend’s restaurant, would I?”
I shook my head, but whether I meant no, don’t stop or no, don’t make me come, I wasn’t sure. My only other response was to stroke his length from root to tip and then clutch my fist around his head in short, shallow, squeezing strokes. I glanced sideways at him and was rewarded by an expression of tense concentration, as if he, too, was having to focus on holding back as much as I was.
At that moment, though, he withdrew his fingers and slid them back in, then smeared my clit with my juices and circled slowly, and I was unable to hold back a sharp inhalation and a slight lift of my hips.
“Stop, Roth,” I whispered, “Stop. Or I’ll come.”
Roth slowed but didn’t stop, and then Marco appeared in front of us with a plate of giant, cheese-dripping lasagna, another bowl of thick rigatoni and meat sauce, and a third plate of chicken parmesan with a small helping of linguini on the side. And, of course, Roth chose that moment to stroke me just so, just in the right spot with the perfect pressure, and I came. I couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t move, didn’t dare even breathe, and all I could do was feel the explosion rip through me, feeling my pussy clench like a vise around his thick, sliding fingers, driving the climax higher and hotter. I squeezed Roth’s cock and squeezed my fork and stared at the table, teeth grinding together and a scream bubbling at my lips.
It was, possibly, the most potent orgasm I’d ever felt, made dirty and scandalous and all the more intense for taking place at a restaurant table in full view of the owner, who was listing the dishes and waxing eloquent on the food he was going to bring out next, and I was still coming, wave after wave crashing through me, making my belly tense and my thighs grip Roth’s hand with crushing pressure….
I couldn’t stop a muffled squeak from escaping.
“Signora? Are you okay?” Marco gave me an odd look.
I nodded, fighting to draw breath. “Yeah—” I coughed to cover another gasp. “Yeah, I just…ahem. Got some salad…in the wrong…down the wrong tube.” I lifted the half-eaten piece of bread in my hand as evidence, then realized my gaffe. “Bread. I meant bread. It’s—good. Oh…so good.” The last phrase came out with shocking intensity, as yet another wave rocked through me, and now Marco was staring at me as if I’d sprouted a second head.
Roth, of course, was perfectly composed, as if his fingers weren�
��t sliding in out of me in maddeningly slow penetration, driving what seemed to be a never-ending climax.
“It is just garlic bread, signora, my wife’s recipe…if you like it so much, perhaps I could give you the recipe?” Marco glanced from me to Roth in back.
“I—no, um—”
“She’s just overwhelmed,” Roth put in. “It’s her first time in Little Italy.”
“Ah, well, that I understand,” Marco said. “The food here you cannot equal anywhere in the world, perhaps even in Italia. And, of course, you have chosen the best ristorante in Little Italy.”
The orgasm ebbing, I finally regained some kind of control, so I smiled at Marco. “This looks delicious, Marco. I can’t wait to try it all.”
“So, no more of the talking!” Marco gestured grandly at the plates of food. “Mangia!”
I went for the lasagna first, and now that I was in control of my faculties again, I resumed stroking Roth with slow, subtle, feather-light touches, increasing my tempo as I felt him tense beside me, watched his fist grip his fork until it bent under his thumb, his other hand withdrawn from my folds and clutching my leg with iron strength. The pain of his grip on my thigh was worth the knowledge that he was barely holding back. His jaw was clenched, his torso angled forward, his thigh tensed under my arm, his breathing becoming ragged.
His hips lifted once, and then he grabbed my wrist and jerked it away. “Enough,” he growled. He placed both hands flat on the table, head bent, breath coming in long, rasping growls, every muscle in his body tensed as he visibly struggled to hold back. After several long minutes, he finally relaxed and turned to glare at me. “I’m a thirty-six-year-old man, and I almost came in my pants.”
I smiled at him and shrugged. “Turnabout is fair play? You made me come in front of Marco. You think that wasn’t embarrassing?”
“It’s different,” he said.
I frowned. “Oh, yeah?”
“Well, yes. You come, you don’t have to deal with a mess.” He shifted his hips as if uncomfortable. “I’m somewhat…damp…as it is.”