**The First Course**

I didn’t expect much from the little Italian place tucked between a dry cleaner and a pawn shop—just decent pasta and a quiet booth to kill time. But then *she* walked in.

Black dress, strapless, hugging curves that made my throat tighten. Dark hair piled up, loose strands teasing her neck. She sat across the dimly lit room, back against the wall, legs crossed just enough that the slit in her dress showed a flash of thigh. She didn’t glance at me, didn’t seem to notice anything but her wineglass as she swirled it lazily.

I wasn’t planning to stare. But then her fingers—long, manicured—traced slow circles on the stem of her glass. And when she bit her lip, something clenched low in my gut.

She lifted the glass, took a sip, and then—almost absently—let one hand drift under the table. I couldn’t see past the tablecloth, but her shoulders shifted, just slightly. Her breath hitched, just once. And that’s when I *knew*.

My cock stiffened in my pants as I watched her eyes flutter, watched her lips part. Was she rubbing herself through her panties? Pressing her fingers into her pussy under that dress? The thought made my pulse throb. I adjusted myself under the table, my dick straining against my zipper.

Then she glanced up. Just for a second. But it wasn’t at me—past me, toward the kitchen. A waiter passed, blocking her for a moment. When he moved, her fingers were back on the table, but her cheeks were flushed. Her chest rose faster.

I palmed my cock through my jeans, thumbing the head through the fabric. Fuck, she was getting off right there, in public, with people chatting and forks clinking around her. No one knew. No one *noticed*.

Her hand slipped under the table again. This time, her hips rocked—tiny, barely-there movements. Her lips pressed together, holding back a moan. I could imagine her panties soaked, her fingers slick as they circled her clit. My own hand moved faster, gripping my cock tighter through my pants.

She bit down on her lower lip. Hard. Her chest heaved. Then—suddenly—her hand jerked back up, fingers curling on the tablecloth. Her whole body shivered. A quiet, breathy gasp escaped her.

*Fuck.* She just came. Right there.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I shoved my hand down my pants, wrapped my fingers around my cock, and stroked hard under the table. The thought of her—hot, wet, getting herself off in a room full of people—drove me wild. My thumb swiped over my leaking tip as I pumped faster, imagining her pussy clenching around nothing, her thighs shaking.

She exhaled, slow and satisfied, then leaned back in her seat. Her fingers toyed with her wineglass again, calm as if nothing had happened.

I came hard into my hand, stifling a groan. My hips jerked as I spilled over my fingers, my pulse roaring in my ears.

By the time I looked up again, she was gone. Just an empty wineglass left behind.

Best fucking dinner I never ordered.