Dining and dancing....

That night they went for dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant, Erica in a black cocktail dress and heels, Michael in slacks and loafers and a cotton sweater. A live band played a blend of jazz and rock, styling with a vibrant but understated energy that kept the dance floor busy.

They dined leisurely, toasting each other, chatting and smiling their happiness. By the time the waiter was suggesting dessert they were contentedly glowing, touching each other's hands, eyes sparkling.

Michael stood and held out his hand in invitation. She dipped her head in acquiescence, letting him lead her onto the floor. They danced well, smiling at each other, eyes glittering.

"People are watching us," she smiled.

"Watching you, you mean"

"Watching us, lover." She clasped her hands behind his neck and swayed against him, eyes fixed on his.

"You love being the center of the attention, don't you?"

"Very much. It excites me. And you know where that leads."

"Brazen hussy."

"Best kind. Do you really want me to be a demure, shy little thing?"

"Only when I'm in the mood for that," he laughed.

"And what are you in the mood for now, Mr. Rourke?"

"I think a brazen hussy would be a fine addition to an excellent evening."

"Do you now? Well, we might be able to arrange that. Personally, I'd like a wicked old man, wise in the ways of the world, full of sin and lust."

"I think there may be one of those around somewhere," he said, caressing her back as they danced, feeling her skin quiver slightly.

"Oh good," she breathed softly. "Maybe he can corrupt me even further."

"Not possible," he laughed.

They danced through four numbers, sensuous and smiling, conscious of the eyes that followed them. Returning to their table, Michael led her by the hand, meeting the eyes of other diners, most of whom looked away.

They sipped wine, pretending to look at dessert menus, eyes warm on each other. She leaned to him, lips parted in a salacious smile.

"I'm not wearing any panties, Mr. Rourke."

"You are a brazen hussy."

"Yes I am. But sometimes I tell wicked lies. You should check to see if I'm telling the truth." She smiled slyly as he leaned towards her, putting a hand on her knee, sliding upwards under her dress, her thighs parting. His fingers found her warm moisture, probed her folds. She bit her lip with a sharp intake of breath.

"You're a wicked man to touch me there. And in public, where anyone might see." She slid forward slightly, pressing her sex against his hand.

"You're very wet," he smiled, his fingers exploring her, fondling her.

"I'm so ready for you," she breathed.

"Let's skip dessert and have it at home."

"I can't wait that long. Come with me," she said, standing up and inclining her head. He followed her to a corridor where she opened the door to the women's washroom and tugged him in with her, sliding the bolt shut on the door.

"Take me," she murmured, slipping into his arms. He pushed her against the sink, pulling her dress up over her hips, one hand fumbling with hers as they both tried to undo his pants. Freed, his cock was fully hard, straining with his lust. He pushed between her thighs, thrusting into her, squeezing the cheeks of her ass as he filled her.

"Oh yes, oh fuck me you wicked old man," she hissed in his ear, biting him as her hips rocked, her legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper into her. "Finish me before someone starts pounding on the door."

He thrust into her, hard and savage and greedy, possessing her, reveling in her smothered cries, the clutch of her hands, the writhing of her hips as he exploded inside her. She held him tight, biting his shoulder, stifling her moans as her spasms started.

Giggling softly to each other they repaired the disorder of their clothes, kissing hungrily. Finished, she unlocked the door and they stepped into the corridor. A man leaned against the wall further down, waiting for the men's room. He stared as they emerged, a flush creeping up his face. Erica smiled and gave him a flicker of a wave, pulling Michael along the corridor.