Scenes from an Italian Restaurant
"I think this will do nicely."
I pull a total Baroo? on her. The place is deserted in the middle of the afternoon despite heavy shopping traffic outside. The decor could win awards for Featuring Every Italian Restaurant Cliché Possible: red and white checkered tablecloths, candles stuck into empty Chianti bottles with stalactites of wax dribbling down their necks, framed posters hanging on the walls of random sites in Rome and Florence, even that damned earworm "Tarantella Napolitana" blaring over the sound system. A bored server is leaning over the bar chatting with the equally bored bartender; neither of them bothers to glance at us as we stand hovering in the doorway. Most of the glasses hanging upside down from the ceiling rack are dusty. Not good signs. "Um. Dude. I know there isn't a whole lot of choice for decent restaurants in this area but if we walk just a few blocks over we could go to — "
She kisses me. Any other objections that I could have brought up instantly evaporate.
The sound of a throat clearing finally filters through to my attention. Opening my eyes, I break off our kiss and blink at the server. Delphine straightens up and smiles serenely. I'm distracted by the sight of her lower lip, which is nicely reddened and slightly swollen where I had nibbled at it.
"Right this way, ladies," says the server, starting to lead us to a table by the window.
"Could we sit in a booth instead?" Pulling off her coat and draping it over her arm, Delphine tilts her chin to indicate the row of seating in the back section, where the lighting is a lot dimmer.
The server's mouth tightens into a straight line that I guess is supposed to pass for a smile. "Of course."
Delphine gestures for me to follow, but I hang back a little. "Go ahead, babe. I want to watch you walk," I murmur.
Something sparks in her eyes. She kisses me again, then turns on the heel of her boot and — there is no other word for the way she moves — swaggers toward the booth where the server is practically tapping her foot waiting for us.
My gaze is riveted to the glorious perfection of Delphine's ass. Her ass, which is lovingly embraced in skintight black leather that clings to and moves with every curve and line of her hips and long legs as though it had been poured over them. Felix, you were so right about that tailor. I owe you big time, little bro...
"Cosima?"
I shake my head, like a dog when it gets out of a lake. Quickly I go to the booth and scooch over so that I'm sitting next to her in the middle of the curved banquette, facing the room. Her thigh is incredibly warm against mine.
"Can I bring you ladies anything to drink?"
"Water and a bottle of Prosecco. Spumante." At the server's blank expression, she clarifies, "Sparkling," then gives me the eyebrow. I shrug. Like I would have any better suggestions.
As soon as the server trudges off, I move my hand to Delphine's knee and rub it in slow circles, enjoying the feeling as her muscles shift beneath the buttery soft material. "These are so fucking hot on you," I say, leaning over to kiss her again.
She smiles against my lips. "I have to admit I had reservations when you first suggested them, especially the, euh, nature of the alterations. But," she moves my hand upward to close around her massive hard-on, which is accommodated and neatly concealed by the tailor's skills, "I'm beginning to see the appeal."
My fingers grip the shaft and grind the base against her mound, making her grunt and squirm. Only fair since I've been a dripping mess all day, watching every step of the elaborate fitting process. "Since when do you dress right?" I tease, settling into a rhythm that sets her hips rocking.
Teeth nip at my nose before she claims my mouth again. "Since you insisted that I wear this ridiculous underwear. That's the side the opening is on — "
"Boxer briefs are not ridiculous, especially when they're seamless. If you wore your regular panties or thongs, not only would you have enough chafing in there to light a campfire, you'd also wind up with a major VPL. Which would be a serious crime in those pants."
I can see her silently mulling that one over. Betcha anything she's making a mental note to ask Siri what the hell it means as soon as I'm out of earshot. I'm onto her game.
Glasses and our bottle of wine thunk down onto the table forcibly enough that some of the water slops over the rims. "Have you ladies had a chance to check out the menu?" asks our server a little pointedly.
"We need a few more minutes, please" says Delphine, politely but with a don't-fuck-with-me edge to her voice. So smooth, my Dr. Cormier.
She pours for both of us. We flip through the oversized, sticky and pointlessly long and complicated menu, ignoring the grease spotted printed inserts touting the day's "specials." "Guess I'll go with a salad," I say dubiously. "Not like they could mess that up too badly, right?"
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," she says, leaning over to kiss me again. Her mouth is so sweet; with my tongue I chase down every trace of the fruity, floral flavors and light fizziness of our wine.
Suddenly an incredibly vivid image pops into my head.
"Cosima."
"Yes, Delphine?"
"Why do you have that Grinch look on your face?"
"Grinch look?"
"You know, the one when he has his wonderful, awful idea."
One of the many benefits of expanding her exposure to pop culture is that I never know when she's going to bust out with something absolutely fucking hilariously awesome like that. I look around. The place is still deserted. Our server is nowhere to be seen. The bartender is glued to something on his phone, facing away from us. Probably porn, if I had to guess. Any minute now and he's going to start jacking off into the dump sink.
I reach for her zipper and yank it down, slipping my hand through the keyhole opening of her undershorts. Her cock is thick and heavy, warm from the heat of her body. Carefully, making sure to stretch the leather as little as possible, I ease it out and squeeze and slowly pump its length.
Her hips slide lower of their own accord, her pants scrunching against the vinyl of the booth. "You. Are. Incorrigible," she says, shaking her head in mock sorrow. Teeth catch her lower lip as she watches my hand.
"Yeah, and you wouldn't have me any other way." Checking around one more time, I kiss her, then slink underneath the table.
A hand reaches out to caress my cheek as I lean in to nuzzle the inseam along the length of her thigh. Greedily I inhale the scent of warm leather mingling with the tantalizing hint of her that gets stronger the closer I move toward her center. My cunt has been thrumming at a steady simmer ever since we arrived at the tailor's this morning but now it threatens to burst into a rolling boil. I briefly regret not having worn a dress or a skirt, though given the state of the floor I'm kneeling on, that might actually be a good thing.
Popping my head up just long enough to snag my wine glass, I settle between her legs, using my elbows to spread them apart. Slowly I pour my Prosecco over her cock, bathing it in shining faintly sparkling liquid. Some of it soaks into her harness and the lining of her pants, but most of it runs beneath into the depths of her folds. With my tongue and lips I lick suck probe swirl, greedily seeking out every drop of the heady mix of leather and wine and come that I can reach.
She groans quietly. The violent trembling of her hips tells me how hard it is for her to keep them still. "Do you recommend the vintage?" she manages to say, winding the fingers of one hand into my dreads. Her other hand scritches at the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, making me shiver lightly.
Closing my eyes to better savor the complex explosion of tastes, I nip her on the inside of one thigh just hard enough to leave teeth marks on the seam. "Panel's still deliberating but the preliminary results are impressive. Rich creamy mouth-feel, luscious nose and incredibly long finish, too." I'm pretty sure I can hear her jaws grinding as I work my tongue beneath her harness to tease at the plump hard jut of her clit. "Oh, god, babe, you taste so fucking good," I say, panting, before diving back in.
"I'm very glad to hear it," she says, sounding a little strangled. Her hips start to jolt, pulsing her cock toward me in short jerky thrusts.
Sliding my hand back through her fly to coat it in her wetness, I flog her cock roughly, making sure to grind the base firmly against her clit with every stroke. In between the pistoning of my hand, I snake out my tongue to lap at the lavish flow soaking her swollen sex. Her hips flex desperately toward my mouth and she is gasping raggedly, trying but not quite managing to be quiet. Working two fingers of my other hand into the slippery heat of her cunt, curling and twisting them within her clutching walls, I feel her entire body go rigid, then her hips arch off the seat, juddering and flexing helplessly as she comes with a choking cry.
I stay with her, drawing out her spasms with my mouth and hands until she leans slumping forward with her elbows braced on the table. "Cosima," she whispers hoarsely, "get back up here, chérie."
Somehow I manage to tuck her cock back into place and then scramble to my feet. She wraps her arms around me and folds me into a kiss. Tiny eternities swirl by before we finally break away, foreheads resting together, sharing breath and air.
"Let's go home, babe."
She nods. Her beautiful face is flushed and the hair at her temples is darkened with sweat. The scent of her is intoxicating, far more so than the wine. The glint in her eye promises every kind of beautifully filthy retaliation her considerable imagination can come up with. I shudder with want and unslaked need.
Between us we have enough cash to cover our tab and leave an overly generous tip the server doesn't deserve. Legs still unsteady, we lean on each other on our way toward the exit. The bartender barely looks up from his phone. Buddy, you ain't seen nothin' compared to my girl.
At the door we meet a couple perusing the menu posted behind a glass case. "I recommend the Prosecco," I tell them as we stumble up the stairs leading to the street.