I’d been to Per Se before, and let me tell you—it wasn’t all that. A three-star Michelin experience sullied by a single rogue hair, coiled like an omen on a pristine plate. For me, a truly memorable meal is etched in dishes that haunt the palate long after the bill has been paid. But Per Se? All I remember are the chocolates—tiny squares of solace at the end of an otherwise forgettable affair.
Adam, however, had other plans. “Something daring, something risqué,” he’d said. As if culinary redemption required a little kink, a little scandal—or maybe just a little me.
“Fine,” I told him. “Show me.”
So here I was, draped in Valentino. A silk skirt that clung like a whispered promise, black nylons that shimmered in the dim city light, and Manolos that clicked against marble like the prelude to trouble. Gold accents adorned me—earrings, watch, ring—carefully chosen flashes of decadence. Over it all, a cashmere poncho edged in rabbit fur, a defense against the biting New York cold.
I parked and stepped into what, for me, will always be the TWC building. The winter sun barely skimmed the skyline, but my Prada sunglasses were non-negotiable; they were as much part of the outfit as the curves beneath it.
My phone buzzed.
Three finance bros just discreetly checked out your half-Brazilian derrière.
Adam.
I smirked, turned on my heel, and indulged him. Sure enough, three Patagonia vests and a set of blue eyes froze in collective awe, their breath catching at the curve of my smile.
They’re cute, I texted back.
They’re not worthy, ma’am.
I glanced around, trying to spot him—and failed. Adam always had a way of staying just out of sight until he wanted to be seen.
The escalator hummed beneath me, drawing me upward like a slow unveiling. When I reached the fourth floor, there he was, waiting—a man who looked like I was about to lose a bet.
Adam. My kind of handsome. A mix of youthful arrogance and practiced charm, with a voice that carried the weight of something deeper. Jared Padalecki comes to mind, but leaner—just teetering on the edge of a “fully developed prefrontal cortex” and the time when mothers start hounding for grandchildren.
Our eyes locked. He wore a tailored suit—Brooks Brothers, likely—that clung to his frame with an intimacy I envied. As I stepped off the escalator, he advanced, took my gloved hand, and kissed it, his lips brushing against the rabbit fur trim at my wrist. His fingers lingered on the softness, teasing.
“Asante, mon chéri,” he murmured.
I smiled, offering him the faintest giggle, and answered him in French—a language that turns even banalities into foreplay.
“Do you want to go to a real party?” he teased.
“I’m exactly where I need to be,” I replied, smooth as silk.
He smirked, his dimple carving my undoing. “You look better than Kate in that movie.”
I tilted my head. “Thank you, sir.”
We were checked in, and the host greeted Adam with a nod of recognition. Of course. Adam always left an impression, always left a mark. The private dining room awaited, its intimacy underscored by soft lighting and sweeping views of the city.
“My father likes to meet me here when he’s in town,” he offered casually as we settled into our seats.
The waiter appeared, all trained smiles and hushed tones, but I cut him off with one of my own.
“Sparkling water, please.”
The waiter bowed and slipped out, leaving us alone.
Adam said nothing. His eyes, which had sparkled on the escalator, now stayed cast downward. Silent. Calculated.
I stood, the scrape of my heels deliberate against the floor as I made my way around the table. Stopping just behind him, I let my fingers trail gently against the line of his neck—seeking. Finding.
The collar. Exactly as agreed. Soft leather beneath his crisp, blue shirt.
“Good boy,” I whispered.
Adam exhaled, a long, slow surrender.
The evening was only just beginning.
When the waiter returned with the sparkling water, I was already seated, legs crossed, posture poised, a picture of controlled elegance. He approached with practiced discretion, his tone smooth, eyes carefully neutral as he asked if we’d had a chance to decide on dinner.
“We’ll have the nine-course chef’s tasting menu,” I said, my voice light but authoritative. I didn’t bother looking up. To this day, I will never understand why anyone would come to such a temple of culinary indulgence and order the vegetable menu. Vegetables. The very thought was insulting, an affront to what it means to savor. You’ll never find me at Eleven Madison Park again either. I respect a healthy lifestyle—but not at Michelin-star prices. I crave meat —proper cuts, kissed by fire, still nearly raw and glistening. Crudo, marrow, the dark, rich taste of blood. That’s what stirs something primal in me. Is it awful that I felt hunger prickling deep in my belly during that Game of Thrones scene when Daenerys devoured the horse’s heart?
I’m not ashamed. Hunger is the closest thing to honesty we have.
“Please send in the sommelier,” I instructed, my lips curling faintly.
“Right away, ma’am,” he replied smoothly, his professional mask firmly in place.
Across the table, Adam sat quiet, eyes downcast, his shoulders a taut line of control. Tonight was about discipline—his. A test of obedience, patience, and will. If he succeeded, the reward would be a game of my own creation, something laced with rope and steel, sharp enough to keep him guessing.
The waiter’s fleeting glance lingered a beat longer than it should have. Curiosity, barely veiled. A mystery had unfurled in the dining room, and though he couldn’t quite place it, he could feel it. I couldn’t blame him—had I been him, I’d be curious, too.
The sommelier arrived moments later, a tall man with a practiced air of sophistication. When he spoke, his French curled like silk through the air, and I smiled. In flawless French of my own, I requested a recommendation. Something seasonal, I explained—less bold, less overpowering, suited to winter and its bite. His surprise at my accent flickered briefly across his face, though he recovered quickly, slipping into the melodic rhythm of his craft. We exchanged a few quiet words as I listed wines I’d adored in the past, earning his grudging respect. After a beat of consideration, he offered a suggestion—a masterpiece of elegance and extravagance: Château Margaux 2000.
“A divine choice, Madame,” he said, bowing slightly before slipping out of the room.
Once again, Adam and I were alone. Silence descended, dense and charged, the hum of unspoken promises sparking between us like static.
“Put your hand on the table,” I said softly.
Adam hesitated for half a heartbeat before obeying, his palm pressing flat against the pristine white linen. The silence thickened as his breath caught, anticipation simmering beneath his carefully maintained composure.
I stood, slow and deliberate, the scrape of my chair whispering through the room. My heels clicked purposefully as I rounded the table. His gaze followed me, a mix of curiosity and caution flickering in those devastating green eyes.
“Don’t move,” I commanded quietly.
I lifted my leg, the silk of my skirt sliding up just enough to reveal the edge of the thigh-high nylons. Placing my foot on his thigh, I pressed my heel down, not hard enough to hurt—not yet—but enough to elicit a gasp that he couldn’t swallow. His fingers curled instinctively against the table, knuckles pale as he fought the impulse to shift.
“Good,” I murmured, watching him. His breathing was shallow now, his control fraying at the edges. I leaned in slightly, so my voice fell like a whisper over his skin. “You feel that? The sharp edge? That’s restraint. Hold it.”
His lips parted, a soft exhale escaping as his body went utterly still beneath my touch. I pressed just a fraction harder, enough to make him flinch, his thigh tensing beneath me. The power of the moment settled between us, crackling like an unseen flame.
Satisfied, I lifted my foot slowly, letting the heel drag lightly against him as I stepped back into place. Adam’s hand remained on the table, trembling faintly now, his pulse visible at the line of his throat.
But I wasn’t finished.
I traced a fingertip lightly over the back of his hand, a fleeting touch, before turning his palm upward. My eyes never left his. I slid my fingers beneath the hem of my skirt once more, slow and deliberate, allowing him to see every movement. When I withdrew my hand, my fingers glistened. His eyes widened, his breath hitching audibly.
“Taste me,” I said, my voice a low command.
He obeyed without hesitation. I brought my hand to his lips, brushing my fingertips gently over them before pressing them inside. He sucked them in slowly, reverently, his tongue swirling against the evidence of my desire. I watched him intently, his cheeks flushed, his restraint teetering dangerously close to the edge.
“Good boy,” I murmured, pulling my fingers away as he swallowed hard, his gaze still locked on mine.
I eased back into my chair, smoothing my skirt with casual precision, as though nothing had happened. Adam’s hand lingered on the table, his breathing unsteady, his self-control splintered but not broken.
The timing was immaculate. The door opened just as the room settled back into an air of polite normalcy. The waiter entered with our first course, oblivious to the storm that had brewed and passed in his absence. I flashed him a polite, practiced smile as he served the dish—a smile that revealed nothing.
Adam said nothing either, his gaze pinned to the table, hands steadying themselves against the linen. But I could feel it—the weight of his restraint, the electric edge of his unraveling.
Delicious.
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