Have you ever tried to hide what was going on under the table from the unsuspecting waiter? With her next oh-so-hot installment, here's Kimmie.
Dirty Little Secret, part thirty-three
She wondered if she would ever get tired of him. She couldn’t really imagine it. There was no way for them to get together every day, so they didn’t really have a chance to annoy each other. He only answered her calls when he wanted to see her. When he called her, she knew it wasn’t for dinner and a movie.
They had done that a couple of times, though, dinner and a movie. The first time he called to see if she wanted to go out, it threw her for a loop. It was so far outside of their unspoken agreement. Normally, she would call her friends to mull over what it might mean – was he falling for her? Did he think it was what she wanted? Was he breaking things off? Having no one to call, she’d had to pace nervously around her living room, trying to think of all the options and rehearse some kind of response.
She should have known, she realized later, that discussing their relationship had nothing to do with his invitation.
He had made her sit next to him at the restaurant, tucked in a back booth with a full table cloth. She still didn’t get it until the server came over to get their drink order. As he asked the man about the specials that night, she felt his fingers at her knee, gathering her skirt together inch by inch from the bottom up.
By the time the server came back with their drinks, he had the hem spread neatly over the tops of her thighs. Only the table cloth saved her from showing the world her black lace panties. She squeezed her knees as tightly as she could, but she knew it was a losing battle. Any moment now, he would make her open them.
By the time the server came back to get their food order, he had the arm closest to her around her shoulders, holding her like any lover might hold his woman. They looked normal enough, she supposed, just two people in love having dinner together. It was likely that no one else could tell that while she was ordering what appeared to be a delicious Egyptian lentil dish, his hidden hand was stuffed in her lap, one cheeky finger stroking the outside of her panties.
She really, really hoped that no one had any clue that when it was his turn to order and he and the server were discussing the various merits of the braised lamb versus the prime rib, he was also sneaking several fingers into the leg of her panties. She desperately prayed that when he finally decided on the beef while the busboy was filling their water glasses, that no one nearby had any inkling that his fingers had breached the material and were deep inside her pussy.
As the server thanked them for their order, she covered a moan by pretending to cough and grabbed her water glass. “Are you all right, dear?” he asked, smiling at the server as he took his leave. Under the table, he began to circle her clit with one wet finger.
She nodded silently, not daring to look at him. She was relieved that the coughing had given her an excuse for her red face. She looked around the dining room, scanning to see if anyone might be looking at them suspiciously. Slowly, steadily, that finger went around and around her clit, rubbing it from every direction, over and over.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She should have known that was coming, just as she should have known that he would have her knees open under that table and that “dinner and a movie” would be anything but.
If she looked at him, she would have to admit that this was really happening, that he was feeling her up at a restaurant. If she looked in his eyes, he would see that she knew this was happening. Why, why did she always have to look? Why did he always have to make her show him that she knew what she was letting him do to her?
“Do it,” he murmured in a low voice, “before I decide to stand us both up right here, right now.”
She whipped her head around to face him fast enough to cramp her neck.
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