“The food is delicious,” she says, unable to stifle a flirting smile.
There we are.
Connecting again, reading our thoughts, reveling in the secret meanings buried in our expressions for pure enjoyment.
She moves her eyes to her plate and focuses on her food, but her smile doesn’t leave her lips.
She knows how much I want to fuck her, and that gives her a thrill. It makes her feel wanted again.
That feeling is intoxicating, erasing the memory of a man’s foul mood no matter how much she liked him between her legs.
And she likes Francisco.
We’ve all witnessed him fucking her. We all know how much she likes to suck him off. Not that she doesn’t like to suck me off.
I need to adjust my package just thinking about our ride to Manhattan late last night.
Yeah… she’s smiling. Eating and smiling, her gaze tipped down.
Life is beautiful again.
She likes to be desired. Who doesn’t?
And she is wanted. Perhaps for much more than she thinks she is. And by all of us.
She delicately runs her napkin over her lips and sips more wine.
“I’m sorry for the delay,” she says, her gaze floating somewhere between Alejandro and me.
“No problem,” he responds, putting the issue to rest. “Did you have fun?” he adds without cracking a smile.
A blush creeps up her face.
“Mm-hmm,” she says, looking down, her stare on her food.
Francisco’s phone rings.
He pulls it out of his pocket, glances at the screen, rises out of his chair, and walks away, a frown darkening his face.
He’s been removed from our conversation, either way, so the frown must’ve been prompted by the call.
I watch her eat quietly, her eyes still down, when she finally flicks her gaze up and looks at me.
I say nothing, giving her a smile.
There are so many things in her eyes, all making me shudder with anticipation.
I like the consuming guilt she feels. She shouldn’t feel guilty, but she does because some things are ingrained in us. We are conditioned that way.
Smiling, she moves her eyes down. I love how she wrestles with her feelings.
Francisco returns, drops his phone on the table, and slides into his seat.
“Problems?” I shoot at him.
“No,” he says in a clipped voice.
“Who was that?” I go on.