Double Date

THREE DAYS LATER — SATURDAY EVENING

The condensation on your water glass trickles down the sweating exterior, pooling around the base before dripping onto the polished mahogany of the booth table.

The ambiance of L’Amore, a dimly lit, upscale Italian joint in the heart of Queens, is thick with the scent of roasted garlic, rich marinara, and the sharp, underlying tang of unspoken malice. To anyone passing by, you are just four college students celebrating a double milestone—Peter and Mary Jane’s recent, impromptu marriage, and you getting a girlfriend.

Gwen sits directly beside you, her thigh pressed flush against yours.

You've banned her from wearing anything baggy or concealing, so she's wearing black silk tube top and designer pants that hug her ass almost as well as her Ghost-Spider suit did. Her straight blonde hair is brushed to a mirror-like sheen, framing a face that is currently a mask of polite condescension.

Beneath the white tablecloth, Gwen has kicked off her heels. Her long, toned leg slides slowly up your inseam. The smooth, hot skin of her bare foot arches over your lap, her toes flexing around your rigid length, pinning you to the leather booth seat. She does it with a casual precision, never once breaking eye contact with the girl sitting across from her.

Mary Jane is white-knuckled, her manicured nails digging so deeply into her linen napkin that the fabric threatens to tear.

She is dressed in a low-cut crimson dress that shoves her massive, unbra’d breasts upward, creating a heavy, jiggling shelf of cleavage. A devastating advantage over Gwen she can't leverage right now. Trapped by the rules of appearances, Mary Jane has to play the doting, adoring wife to the nerd beside her, unable to slide her hands across your body or lean across the table to claim your lips without fracturing the illusion.

"The lasagna here is supposed to be incredible," Peter says, his voice cutting through the silence with a nervous, pitchy cadence. He is wearing a slightly oversized navy blazer, his hands fluttering over his silverware like trapped birds. "MJ and I were thinking about sharing a platter. Right, honey?"

Mary Jane doesn't look at him. Her emerald eyes are locked onto Gwen, flashing with fury. "I'm not particularly hungry, Peter," she says, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness that fails to mask the venom beneath.

"Oh, I'm absolutely starving," Gwen purrs. She shifts her weight beside you, her bare foot giving your shaft a slow, heavy squeeze beneath the fabric of your slacks. A low, ragged breath hitches in your throat, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. Gwen tilts her head, her piercing blue eyes sweeping over Mary Jane’s generous chest before settling back on her face. "Though, I suppose I actually have to watch my caloric intake. Some of us prefer to stay lean, tight, and athletic. Adam likes his girl flexible. Right, babe?"

Mary Jane’s jaw tightens so hard a muscle twitches in her cheek. "There's a difference between being athletic and just being built like a telephone pole, Gwen," MJ fires back. "Some men prefer a real woman. Someone with actual curves to hold onto, who knows how to satisfy a man."

Peter winces. He reaches out, placing a placating hand on Mary Jane’s bare shoulder. "Hey, guys, let's keep it easy, okay? We're out to celebrate. MJ, maybe you just need some wine to relax—"

"Don't touch me, cuck," Mary Jane snaps, her head whipping toward him.

The word slips out before she can check herself, sharp and lacerating. Peter flinches as if struck by a physical blow, his hand instantly retracting from her shoulder. His face flushes a deep, embarrassed crimson, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.

A second later, she realizes what she just let slip in public. A sharp spike of panic breaks through her anger, and she surreptitiously glances over her shoulder, her emerald eyes darting toward a middle-aged couple sharing a bottle of wine two tables over, then toward the waiter clearing plates near the kitchen. You can see her start to panic, knowing that if she exposed your relationship, you would not be happy with her.

Gwen, on the other hand, smiles a brilliant, gleeful smile at Mary Jane's mistake. Her foot stops its teasing stroke against your groin for just a fraction of a second, her entire athletic frame humming with the pure, malicious joy of watching her rival step on a landmine.

You let Mary Jane's panic and Gwen's triumph linger for a few delicious heartbeats, letting the lesson sink in, but you don't risk the actual consequences. You begin making a slow, deliberate circle with your head to look at every person near you, starting with the waiter standing three feet away with a tray balanced on his shoulder.

Thump.

The low chatter of the dining room drops into a dead, hollow crawl. A stream of olive oil pouring from a glass cruet at a neighboring table freezes into a golden ribbon. You slide effortlessly into the waiter’s immediate memory banks, pursuing his thoughts from the last sixty seconds. He was mentally calculating his tips; he didn't hear a thing.

Snap.

The ambient restaurant noise rushes back for a microsecond before your eyes shift, locking onto the middle-aged couple across the aisle.

Thump.

The world freezes to a standstill once more. You plunge into their minds, sorting through the quiet hum of their conversation until you find it—a sudden spike of curiosity. They did hear the word, though they hadn't quite localized who said it. With a casual mental flick, you surgically excise the memory, smoothing over the gap so they remember nothing but the warm taste of their Cabernet.

Snap.

The restaurant noise washes over you again, only for your gaze to snap to a slick, sharp-dressed guy sitting at the bar twenty feet away. He’s nurseing a scotch, his neck turned slightly toward your booth.

Thump.

The world drops into a dead freeze for the third time. You dive into his mind and find a surging wave of pure, mocking amusement. He heard the word perfectly. He saw the way Mary Jane snapped it, saw Peter flinch like a whipped dog, and his internal monologue is already racing with predatory confidence. He’s staring right at Mary Jane's spectacular, overflowing cleavage, actively planning to buy your table a round of drinks, before walking over to see if the gorgeous redhead wanted to come back to his penthouse while her pathetic excuse of a husband sits in the corner and watches.

He reminds you of you. Too bad for him he doesn't have your powers.

With a cold, effortless twist of your focus, you don't just erase the last sixty seconds—you overwrite his entire impression of the table. You replace the memory of Mary Jane's voice with a dull, completely uninteresting burst of static, leaving him blinking at his glass, his mind entirely blanked of any urge to approach.

Snap.

On and on it goes. You systematically sweep the immediate area, checking a young couple by the door, a busboy wiping down a counter, and a group of businessmen in the corner. Once you are absolutely certain that you have modified the memory of everyone in earshot, you let time resume as you turn your gaze back onto Mary Jane.

"You got lucky," you say, your voice smooth, quiet, and carrying a razor-sharp edge of authority. "No one heard you."

Mary Jane’s emerald eyes are wide and trembling as she looks at you. The temporary relief of not being exposed is instantly crushed by the weight of your displeasure.

"But you still made the mistake," you continue, dressing her down with flat, freezing calm. "A stupid, careless mistake. You let your little temper tantrum jeopardize our secret because you couldn't control yourself."

A soft, breathless whimper escapes her throat. "Adam, I—"

You hold up a hand to cut her off. "I want you on your best behavior for the rest of this date. You are going to lean against Peter. You are going to share that lasagna, you are going to let him feed you, and you are going to smile like he is the only man in the room. When we get home, we'll talk about your punishment."

The word punishment sends a visible shiver straight through her voluptuous frame. "Of course, Adam," she whispers, trying to not provoke you further.

She forces the tense, panicked lines of her face to dissolve, smoothing them out into a beautifully soft, adoring smile that looks flawless to anyone watching. She turns towards her husband and lets out a sweet, breathless giggle, leaning her heavy curves sideways until her shoulder presses deeply against Peter’s navy blazer.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she murmurs, her voice a pitch-perfect imitation of a tired, completely infatuated bride as she rests her head gently against Peter's shoulder. "I'm just so exhausted from the move. Of course we can share the lasagna. You always know exactly what I need."

Peter forces an equally fake grin on his face as he drapes a protective arm around her bare shoulders, pulling her close against his side. "It's okay, MJ. I know it's been a crazy week," he says softly, his thumb tracing the smooth skin of her shoulder.

No one looking at the two of them would think they had been having a bitter, venomous spat for the last three days—ever since Peter recommended Gwen for your harem, and worse, as your pretend-girlfriend for public events and double-dates. It had been an exquisite experience, watching a woman as gorgeous as Mary Jane, who could normally have any man she set her eyes on, burn with helpless jealousy every time you so much as smiled at Gwen, never mind hugged or kissed her.

You’re sure she’ll try to get her revenge tonight—she always does—but in the interim, Mary Jane is forced to cuddle with her husband, watching as Gwen takes a slow, triumphant victory lap.

Gwen shifts her weight, her long legs, bare in her dress, sliding entirely across your lap under the table. She leans her upper body heavily against you, her small, firm breast flattening delightfully against your chest as she hooks her manicured fingers into the collar of your shirt. "See? I told you she was tired," Gwen whispers, looking up at you through thick, pale lashes.

She pulls your face down to hers, her plush, glossy lips parting as she claims your mouth in a deep, slow, deliberately lazy kiss. Her wet tongue strokes against yours with a greedy, unhurried rhythm, tasting you deeply right in front of the newlyweds. She takes her time, marking her territory while her bare foot resumes its slow, heavy friction against your rigid length beneath the tablecloth.

When she finally pulls back, a thin, glistening line of saliva breaks between your lips. A beautiful, smug smirk curves her mouth as she rests her blonde head firmly against your chest, her blue eyes gleaming with triumph as she glares across the mahogany at the redhead.

"She'll be too tired to entertain you tonight," Gwen taunts. "I'd be happy to take care of you so the sow can rest."

Mary Jane watches the entire display from Peter's shoulder. Her fake smile remains perfectly fixed for the sake of the restaurant, but there is absolute murder in her eyes, and beneath the table, her fingernails are driving so hard into her own thigh that she’s leaving deep, red crescents in her skin.

"You are going to pay for this," she hisses, her voice vibrating with venom.

"What did I say about being on your best behavior?" you ask, your tone dropping into that flat, icy register you use when punishing your girls.

"Yeah, Mary Jane," Gwen chimes in, a predatory, Cheshire-cat grin spreading across her flawless face. "Behave."

Mary Jane's jaw tightens. You see how badly it burns her to submit in front of her rival, but under the immovable weight of your gaze, she breaks.

"Sorry," she mutters. Pointedly, her emerald eyes lock only onto yours, completely refusing to grant Gwen the satisfaction of a glance.

A moment later, the waiter steps up to the booth, balancing a massive tray. "Sizzling skillet lasagna for two, and the grilled chicken caprese for the lady," he announces, setting the steaming, fragrant plates down between you.

"Thank you," Peter says, a massive wave of relief washing over his tense features. Eager to play his part and distract from the boiling tension, he already picks up a fork, cutting a small, steaming bite of pasta and feeding it directly to his smiling, silent wife.

You watch Mary Jane docilely open her mouth to accept it, her eyes still anchored to yours, begging for the dinner to end so she can finally drop the facade.

You ignore her silent begging, letting her simmer. Instead, you lean back into the deep leather cushion of the booth, completely relaxed as Gwen expertly cuts a small piece of the chicken caprese. She lifts the fork, offering it to you. You take the bite, chewing slowly, keeping your eyes locked onto hers until a faint, dazed flush creeps up her neck and colors her cheeks.

Beneath the white tablecloth, your hand slides down the tight, muscular curve of Gwen’s thigh. Your fingers grip her with a heavy, bruising possessiveness, anchoring her bare foot securely against your throbbing groin. She lets out a soft, hitching breath at the sudden pressure, her toes instantly curling around your rigid length with a desperate, submissive eagerness to please.

The food is excellent, the wine is sweet, and the silent war playing out across the mahogany table is utterly intoxicating.

You watch Mary Jane docilely open her mouth again, swallowing another forkful of steaming lasagna that Peter offers her like a well-trained pet. She plays the part of the doting wife with mechanical perfection, but her emerald eyes constantly cycle through a brutal, agonizing loop—switching between staring at you with a starved hunger that has absolutely nothing to do with dinner, and darting back to Gwen with a savage heat that has absolutely nothing to do with lust.

Gwen doesn't shrink from the heat. She simply absorbs the glares with a smug, untouchable confidence, leaning heavier into your chest and occasionally letting her tongue dart out to lick a stray drop of sauce from her lip while staring directly at the redhead.

Neither of them are paying the slightest bit of attention to Peter. He continues to chatter amiably about his organic chemistry midterms, gesturing with his fork, entirely content in his role as a smokescreen, meant to obscure the fact you are fucking his wife.

You take another slow sip of your wine, letting the rich, dark liquid linger on your tongue as you savor the sheer, volatile tension vibrating through the booth. The public theater of this double-date has served its purpose beautifully.

You set the wine glass down with a soft, definitive clink. The sound cuts through Peter's chatter instantly.

"Peter, Mary Jane," you say, your voice smooth and conversational as you slide your hand out from under the tablecloth. Gwen immediately lets her leg slip back to her side, though her blue eyes remain glued to yours, tracking your every movement. "We're going to head out a bit early. I promised Gwen I’d drop her off at home tonight—and I think it's time I introduce myself to my girlfriend's father. I would hate for Commissioner Stacy to think I'm disrespectful."

Author's Note: Sorry this one took so long. It is because I am rewriting a lot of the earlier chapters. I'm also going to have to rewrite the sex scene in 'Spreading the Web' before the next chapter can make sense/work the way I want it to. If you guys like that chapter, I highly recommend making a local copy before I start editing it.