My Heels Stayed On

We met for dinner at Le Coucou. You know how much I like that restaurant. The lighting is soft, the food is beautiful, and they always bring the wine before I even have to ask.

You were already there, drink in hand, Vieux Carré, of course, and when you looked up at me, I felt it in the pit of my stomach. I knew your favorite color is blue, so I wore that dress for you. Navy, backless, with the zipper that slides down lower than it should.

I kissed your cheek, slid into the seat across from you, and ordered a French martini. You didn’t take your eyes off me.

The tasting menu was perfect. Foie gras with brioche, duck breast with black cherry, lobster quenelles in saffron cream, and that dish with truffles and something I can’t pronounce. But the real fun started somewhere between courses, when I slipped my foot into your lap, trying to be discreet and failing beautifully.

You didn’t flinch. But I saw it in your jaw. The way your hand tightened around your glass. The way you shifted just slightly in your seat.

You paid with one quiet nod, stood up, and helped me into my coat, your hand skimming over the small of my back like you couldn’t wait to see what was underneath.

We went back to the Carlyle. The suite was warm, dim, elegant. You stepped behind me, kissed my shoulder, and took my coat without a word. I turned to face you, and you reached up to gently tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.

I leaned into you, and you kissed me the way I’d been craving all night, full, slow, deep.

I slipped my hands beneath your shirt, you slid yours up the backs of my thighs. I whispered your name once, and your mouth moved to my neck. You guided me toward the bed, kissing me until I forgot what came next.

You turned me around, unzipped my dress, and let it fall to the floor.

You didn’t say a thing when you saw what was underneath. Lace. Black. Barely there. The heels stayed on.

You watched me walk toward the bed, the sway of my hips, my hair brushing down my back, and then you followed.

You kissed the inside of my thighs first. Then higher. Then higher. Your tongue moved like it had missed me. Like you were making up for every second we’d spent apart.

I was moaning in minutes, shaking in your hands, clenching your hair between my fingers as I came. And you didn’t stop.

You kissed up my stomach, my chest, my mouth. I pulled you on top of me, legs wrapped around your waist, your cock hard and heavy between us, and I didn’t ask, I just guided you in.

We both groaned. Your hands on my hips, your body moving against mine, slow at first, then deeper. You whispered my name into my neck, told me how wet I was, how tight I felt, how fucking good I was.

I begged for more. And you gave it to me.

Again. And again. And again.

Until I was trembling beneath you, lips parted, fingers still curled into the sheets.

And when we finally finished, when you laid back beside me, skin flushed and chest rising fast, I rolled over, rested my hand on your chest, and smiled.

“I told you that dress was dangerous,” I whispered.

You smiled too.

Outside, the city kept moving. But we didn’t.