Dinner For Two

Too late. Way too late. We should have been strolling down the red carpet by now to get to our reserved table at the restaurant—me in high heels, him in patent leather shoes. Alexander wasn't even wearing shoes. Or anything else, for that matter. Instead, he was lying on his back in bed, smug as a cat that had just eaten cream. Only the bare minimum was covered. Typical. On the one hand, men seemed to have virtually no sense of modesty and sprawled around half-naked everywhere. On the other hand, he was spoiling my fun by not letting me see the part of him that interested me most.

“It's too late for the restaurant now,” I called through the door.

“Then we'll just order something to the room.” Without hesitation, he reached for the phone as if he had planned it from the start. He mumbled something about “dinner for two,” “champagne,” and “discreet, please.”

I tried to get myself halfway sorted, brushed my hair out of my face, freshened up in the bathroom, slipped into my bathrobe, and tied the sash as tightly as possible. Haha, as if there was anything left of me that I needed to hide from Alexander. Well, at least I could impress him with the fact that I had a shred of decency.

Alexander was still lying on the bed, hadn't moved an inch.

“Don't you want to get dressed too?” I grumbled. He could hear the undertone in my voice that my anger was only feigned.

“Yes, ma'am. As you wish,” he mocked.

He stood up, the towel loosely wrapped around his hips. I couldn't help but grin when I noticed his semi-erect cock under the fabric, already trying to stand up again. My tongue automatically ran over my lips. I was already damn hungry — and definitely not for room service.

Then there was a knock. Alexander, who was on his way to the bathroom, didn't miss a beat. Very confident. He just tied the towel tighter and opened the door. A waiter, young and handsome, pushed a trolley inside. When he noticed our clothing, or rather the lack thereof, he became visibly nervous. And stared. No, actually, he was gawking at me as if he had landed in another dimension and I was a damn alien.

I did what any decent woman would do in this situation: I opened my bathrobe slightly, letting him catch a glimpse of everything. Then I turned away and closed it again. The boy's eyes grew huge and his ears turned bright red. I grinned. Alexander did too, but for a different reason. He shook his head slightly and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “You're impossible.” He tipped generously.

When the waiter finally left, we sat down at the table on wheels in the bed. Champagne, small plates, far too much silver cutlery.

I speared a piece of salmon with my fork. But then I changed my mind and deliberately dropped it back onto the plate, picked it up with my fingers, and brought it to my lips. I nibbled lasciviously at the red flesh. Of course, I made sure Alexander saw exactly what I was doing. I devoured the salmon, swallowed again very audibly, and licked my fingers demonstratively slowly. Alexander looked at me the whole time as if he wanted to throw himself at me. But he didn't move a muscle.

“Well, don't you want to help yourself?” I teased him.

“I'm enjoying the view first.”

His voice vibrated, but he still had himself under control.

After dinner, I leaned back, arms and legs stretched out wide, as if I had just won the World Cup. Alexander leaned over me and carefully pulled on the bow of my bathrobe. I had tied it much too tight, and it was stretched like a spring. Just a little tug, and the thing popped open like a gift package. My breasts were exposed, and my body reacted immediately. Alexander ran a finger over the sensitive tips. I sucked in the air sharply.

But I didn't want to make it too easy for him.

“You can have the rest of the salmon, Alexander,” I whispered. “But you have to earn me first.”

And then I slapped his hand.