How to Discipline Your Vampire(105)
“You’re too delicate to play such a harsh woman,” I chided. “Your features are too gentle—and I couldn’t imagine that face of yours with all those piercings.”
She smiled, and said, “You’d be surprised at just how edgy I can be. I’m actually quite harsh myself. Commanding.”
I cleared her empty plate, and headed toward the kitchen to grab dessert. “You? Commanding? I can’t picture it,” I said, quickly returning with our black raspberry gelato.
“Would you like me to prove it to you?” she asked with a sinister smile, and pulled my chair next to hers. We were same-siders now—and despite my usual hatred for same-siders, I complied happily.
She smirked as I placed the dessert in front of her and took my seat. “Now,” she said, voice lower and decidedly sexier, “feed me my gelato, William.”
“With pleasure,” I said, dipping my spoon into the soft confection and raising it to her perfect, full lips. She parted them with rapture, and I slid the gelato into her mouth smoothly, her tongue lapping up the residue. I reminded myself to refrain from coming in my pants.
“Good?” I asked, barely able to form words while watching her reaction to the dessert’s flavor.
“Unreal,” she said. “More, now.” She opened her mouth again, and her eyes rolled back as she tasted my creation.
“I wouldn’t say that having me feed you is terribly harsh, Cerise. You’re being too hard on yourself.” I smiled, and continued to feed her.
She paused before the next bite to speak. “I want you to check outside the door and make sure the chef is busy,” she whispered, eyes shifty. I complied and smirked.
When I returned to the table, she had another surprise command for me. “I want you to touch me under the table,” she breathed. “Make sure nobody comes into our private dining room,” she said, and I locked the door behind me.
I sat in my chair, reached under the tablecloth, and found her spread thighs easily. I moaned as she pushed her legs wider apart, my fingers gliding up slowly. I watched her chest heave as the fingers of my right hand found their way inside her. She had kicked off her panties while I was “checking on the chef,” and I felt a moment of surprise when my fingers met warm wetness instead of lacy fabric.
“I love how cold your fingers are,” she whimpered as I rubbed and pleasured her. She threw her head back rapturously and watched with half-closed eyes.
“Yes,” she grunted, thrusting her hips at me, meeting my dexterous fingers. I bit my lip, barely able to keep my pants on.
“Can you believe you’re doing this?” she asked, breathing heavily. “Can you believe you’re fingering the Cerise Norrel in the middle of a restaurant?” I pulled my fingers out, licked them slowly, and plunged them back inside her.
“Thank you,” I responded simply.
“You’re letting that camera of yours go to waste, you realize,” she taunted. My eyes widened.
I picked it up, tentatively. “You’d let me . . . ,” I said, trailing off.
“I’ll even sign them,” she said, winking.
I pulled the chair out a little so that the tablecloth was no longer covering our exploits. She sat there, spread out beautifully, with my fingers pulsing inside her. Her dress was hiked above her waist, bunched in the sexiest way. I took a picture of her rapt face first.
“You can go lower,” she said, thrusting slowly as I photographed our intimate moment. She groaned.
She unbuttoned the first three buttons of her belted shirt dress, exposing her impressive décolletage. “Or here,” she said, now pulling the shoulders of the dress down until she was just in a cream-colored satin bra. One I gave her recently. I snapped away, unable to pull my eyes from her.