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Jinu's hand was a brand on Rumi's thigh, a promise of heat that made the silk of her dress feel like a prison. They were in the dim, plush booth of the upscale bistro, Mira’s laughter tinkling from across the table, but all Rumi could feel was the slow, deliberate stroke of her husband’s thumb along the sensitive skin of her inner leg, just inches from where she ached.
“You look beautiful tonight, Rumi,” Abby said, raising his wine glass to her. He was oblivious, his arm draped around his girlfriend Mira.
“Thank you,” Rumi's managed, her voice a little too tight. Jinu's fingers drifted higher, tracing the hem of her dress.
“So beautiful,” Jinu murmured, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm. “And so, so needy already. I can smell it on you.”
Her core clenched. He wasn’t wrong. In the car, parked just around the corner, he’d made sure of it. A frantic, stolen ten minutes where he’d pushed her dress up, slid her panties aside, and worked two fingers into her with a ruthless, knowing rhythm. He’d brought her to the very edge, whispering filth into her skin, then stopped, leaving her trembling and soaked. He’d made her leave the soaked panties in the glove compartment. “You won’t need them,” he’d said.
Now, under the crisp white tablecloth, his hand found the bare skin of her thigh. His fingers walked higher, a slow, torturous invasion. Rumi shifted, trying to press herself against his hand, but he pulled back, chuckling softly.
“So,” Mira said, her eyes bright. “Abby’s been planning this little surprise all week. I think I’m finally wearing him down to tell me what it is.”
“It’s in the car,” Abby said, grinning. “A little pre-dinner gift. Come see?”
Mira squealed and slid out of the booth. “We’ll be two minutes! Don’t eat all the bread!”
They vanished toward the entrance. The moment they were out of sight, Jinu's demeanour shifted. The casual mask dropped. His eyes, dark and hungry, locked onto hers. “Now,” he said, the word a low command.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. The restaurant hummed around them with muted conversations, the clink of cutlery—but it felt miles away. With a frantic, fluid motion, Runi hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her thong—the only barrier left—and peeled it down her legs. She kicked it off under the table. The cool air of the restaurant whispered against her exposed, slick flesh, a shocking contrast to the heat she radiated.
Jinu didn’t hesitate. His hand returned, not to her thigh, but directly to her core. His palm cupped her, a firm, possessive weight. A soft, choked gasp escaped her lips. He leaned in, nuzzling her neck, his voice a rough vibration against her pulse. “That’s my girl. So wet for me. Dripping for me. Let’s see if you can be quiet.”
His middle finger slid through her folds, gathering the thick, creamy evidence of her arousal. Jinu painted it over her swollen clit, making her jerk. “Shh,” he soothed, but it was a taunt. He began circling her clit, a slow, maddening orbit that built pressure like a storm. Her hands gripped the edge of the leather booth, knuckles white.
“They’ll… they’ll be back,” Rumi whispered, her hips beginning a tiny, involuntary rock against his hand.
“Then you’d better come fast,” he said, his tone deceptively light. Jinu pushed a finger inside her, then two, curling them upward. Her inner walls fluttered, gripping him tightly. “Oh, you’re so tight, baby. So hungry. You need this so bad, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she hissed, her head falling back against the booth. The praise, the filthy approval in his voice, sent another bolt of pure lust straight to her core. He was her anchor and her tormentor.
Jinu set a relentless pace, his fingers positioning in and out of her, his thumb maintaining that perfect, dizzying pressure on her clit. The sounds were obscene—the wet, slick slide of his fingers, the soft, sticky squelch with each thrust. Rumi bit down on her lower lip hard enough to taste copper, her eyes squeezed shut. The pleasure was a live wire, sparking from where he touched her out to her fingertips, her toes, the roots of her hair.
“Look at me when you come,” Jinu demanded, his voice guttural.
Her eyes flew open, meeting his intense gaze. Rumi was unravelling, the coil in her belly winding tighter, tighter. The world narrowed to his hand, his eyes, the building roar in her ears. Her muscles began to lock. “Jinu… I’m…”
“Now, Rumi. Come for me. Be a good girl and come on my hand.”
The command shattered her. The orgasm ripped through her with violent, breathtaking force. A strangled cry was trapped in her throat as her body convulsed. Her inner walls clenched rhythmically around his buried fingers, a series of intense, fluttering pulses. Warmth flooded her, a gush of her own release that she felt seep out around his knuckles, soaking his hand and the leather of the booth beneath her. Rumi trembled violently, her breath coming in ragged, silent pants.
Jinu worked her through it, his fingers gentling, coaxing every last shudder from her. He slowly withdrew his hand, bringing his glistening fingers to his lips. He never broke eye contact as he sucked them clean, a dark, satisfied smile on his face. “Perfect,” he whispered.
Footsteps approached. Rumi frantically smoothed her dress down as Jinu casually wiped his hand on the napkin in his lap. Mira and Abby slid back into the booth, Mira clutching a small velvet box.
“You will not believe what he got me!” Mira gushed, completely unaware.
Rumi tried to smile, but her body was still singing, boneless and oversensitive. The aftermath of her orgasm was a warm, sticky pool beneath her on the booth. She was sitting in her own cum, a secret, shameful knowledge that made her blush burn hotter.
As Mira prattled on, Jinu's hand returned to her thigh. But this time, his fingers trailed higher, past the damp evidence, and settled lightly, oh-so-lightly, on her swollen, throbbing clit. He didn’t move, just let his fingertips rest there, a constant, teasing reminder. A low, continuous hum of arousal began to stir again deep within her, cutting through the post-orgasm haze.
The waiter arrived with their salads. Jinu engaged Abby in a conversation about the wine list, his expression one of polite interest. All the while, his index finger began to move. Not a stroke, just the barest, most subtle circular rub, a ghost of pressure through her sensitive flesh.
Rumi's fork shook in her hand. She took a bite of arugula, but she could taste nothing. She could only feel that slow, insistent friction, stoking the embers he’d just set ablaze. She was naked under her dress, filled with the echo of his touch, sitting in the cooling proof of her climax, and Jinu was already building her back up. A needy, desperate whimper built in her chest. She pressed her thighs together, trapping his hand, seeking more pressure.
Jinu leaned over, as if to reach for the pepper mill. His lips brushed her ear. “Easy, my greedy girl. Dinner has only just begun.”