“It seemed like it would be traditional enough for you,” Charlie teased, though his hand is behaving anything but traditionally, sliding onto my knee under the table and then gently pushing my skirt a little higher. Just far enough to let his warm, strong palm rest above my knee. The simple skin on skin contact alone nearly makes me lose my head.
I scoot my chair a bit closer to the table, closer to him. “I suppose it will do,” I joke, with a smirk, and he laughs, then, his eyes dancing as they track mine.
“You know, there’s supposed to be a meteor shower tonight,” he says, inching his chair in a little.
“One you can actually see from town?” I ask, but the word ends in a breathy gasp, because Charlie has taken advantage of that chair movement of his to slide his hand farther up my thigh, his fingertips inching beneath the hem of my dress. The sensation draws a faint gasp from me, and I tilt my body closer to his, pushing his hand still higher up my leg.
Every nerve ending in me quivers in anticipation. The less sensible part of my brain screams for me to push the table aside—or better yet, to demand he grab me and bend me backward over it. But a few remaining dregs of sanity have me glancing around at the rest of the rooftop igloos dotted across this penthouse restaurant, making sure nobody has noticed how scandalously close we’re sitting, or where exactly Charlie’s hand has wound up.
Charlie notices, and smirks. “Don’t worry. Everyone else is engrossed in their own business right now, trust me.”
Still, I can’t help the urge to check. But he’s right. There are only a couple other tables up here that are occupied—I’m guessing that this view and the cute little igloos and all of the rest come with a price tag hefty enough to deter the mobs of people who would otherwise be all over this spot. And besides, the few tables that do have couples seated at them look just as preoccupied with one another as we are.
“Still.” I turn back to him, a scold dying on my tongue.
Because the moment we lock eyes, Charlie grins and slides his hand all the way up underneath my skirt, until it reaches my hipbone. His long, thick fingers trace the edges of my panties, following the thin fabric all the way down to the spot where they curve down along the crease where my thigh meets said hipbone. He presses his finger into that crease, achingly close to my pussy, which is already throbbing with desire, white hot and eager for more.
But I’m not about to cave in that easily.
Charlie’s grinning at me like this is a challenge, while his lips curl at the edges with sheer amusement. “What’s the matter? Distracted?”
I suck in a deep, barely convincing breath, and then I shift my legs, uncrossing them and recrossing them to trap his hand between my thighs, just as our server ducks into the igloo. “Not at all,” I reply, with a broad smile on my face, as the server approaches our table.
Charlie’s hand remains trapped between my thighs. His eyes narrow for a second, and I can feel him try to pull away, but I tighten my thighs, holding him there.
In response, he uncurls one finger and presses it right up against my panties, at the spot that, beneath them, conceals my clit. I have to clamp my lips together hard, then, to resist letting out a little moan of pleasure. Fuck.
“Have you decided what you’d like to drink yet?”
“Oh, I’m already sure what I want for my whole meal,” Charlie replies, his gaze locked on mine, filled with fire. His finger curls against my clit, stroking lightly, and I dig my teeth into my lower lip in order to maintain control over my facial expression.
“I… Wine,” I blurt, awkwardly, and I drop my napkin into my lap at the same time, hoping that the waiter won’t notice how tightly my legs are crossed beneath the table, or the fact that Charlie’s leaning forward in an awkward position, one hand beneath the table in the strangest way.
If he does notice anything, the poor server is too well-trained to say anything about it. He nods at me. “Would the lady like red or white? We also have sparkling—”
“A bottle of red, I think,” I say, although the last word dissolves into a breathy sound as Charlie smirks and shifts his hand again, those damn fingers of his always knowing just the right spot to press to get me worked up.
He starts to move them steadily now, his fingers stroking back and forth along my clit, the touch light enough to drive me wild, but hard enough that it makes me press my lips together hard, struggling not to make a sound.