“You’re so fucking tight. Tighter than I imagined. All those dinners, watching you, wondering what you’d feel like—”

“Please move,” I gasped. “Please—”

He pulled back slowly—agonizingly—letting me feel every ridge, every vein, the drag of him against my walls. Then slammed back in hard enough to jolt me forward on the bench.

I cried out. The crowd murmured.

He found a rhythm. Deep, measured strokes that punched the air from my lungs. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the space. His fingers dug into my hips, anchoring me in place while he fucked me like he’d been waiting years to do exactly this.

Maybe he had.

“You...