Climax Under the table 🥵🥵

The fabric of the changing room curtain shivered as Cami’s hand brushed against the outside. Ariana’s soul felt like it was leaving her body. She was pinned against the mirror, her shirt hiked up, her lips swollen, and her best friend’s father was a solid, unyielding wall of muscle against her.

"Ari? You okay? You’re being really quiet," Cami said, her voice inches away.

Ariana’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She looked at Mateo, pleading with her eyes for him to do something—anything—but he only stared back at her with a dark, amused glint. He liked this. He fed on the terror and the risk.

Finally, Mateo took a slow breath and stepped back just an inch, though he kept one hand firmly on Ariana’s hip, his thumb digging into the bone.

"Camila," Mateo called out, his voice perfectly projected, calm and authoritative as if he were in the middle of a hospital board meeting. "Go and check the jewelry counter near the entrance. I noticed a pearl necklace that would suit the emerald dress you’re holding. Ariana is struggling with a difficult zipper on this gown; we’ll be out in a moment."

"Oh! Pearls? Really?" Cami’s footsteps immediately receded, her voice fading. "Okay, let me go look! Don't be too long, Ari!"

The silence that followed was even more suffocating than the noise. Ariana let out a jagged breath, her forehead dropping onto Mateo’s chest. "You're insane," she whispered. "She was right there. She could have seen us."

"But she didn't," Mateo rasped. He reached out and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "And even if she had, do you think I would have let her stop me? You're mine today, Nina. Every second of your time belongs to me. Fix your clothes. We’re going to dinner."

The rest of the afternoon was a fever dream. Mateo moved through the mall like a king, trailing behind Cami as she bought bags of silk and lace, but his eyes never left Ariana. Every time Cami turned her back to look at a display, Mateo would brush against Ariana—a hand on the small of her back, a thumb tracing the shell of her ear—reminders that he was always there, always watching, always waiting.

By the time they reached the upscale, dimly lit restaurant for dinner, Ariana was a wreck. The establishment was a playground for Madrid’s elite—heavy velvet curtains, white tablecloths, and the soft clink of crystal. They were seated in a secluded circular booth, Cami on one side, Ariana in the middle, and Mateo on the other side.

"I’m so excited for tomorrow," Cami sighed, sipping a glass of expensive red wine. "The Gala is going to be perfect. Dad, thank you for letting Ari stay with us. It’s been so much fun."

"It has been... illuminating," Mateo said, his eyes fixed on Ariana as the waiter served their appetizers.

Under the heavy white tablecloth, Ariana felt a sudden, heavy weight on her knee. She jumped slightly, her fork clattering against her plate.

"Everything alright, Ari?" Cami asked, concerned.

"Fine," Ariana gasped. "Just... the chair is a bit uncomfortable."

Mateo’s hand didn't move. It stayed there, large and hot, his fingers beginning a slow, agonizing crawl up her inner thigh. Ariana’s breath caught in her throat. She tried to shift away, but the booth was narrow, and Mateo’s grip was absolute. He didn't just touch her; he claimed her, his hand moving higher, his thumb tracing the seam of her silk shorts under her skirt.

"You should try the tartare, Ariana," Mateo said, his voice smooth and professional, even as his fingers reached the sensitive, damp heat between her legs. "It’s a specialty of the house. Very raw. Very primal."

Ariana’s vision blurred. She gripped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. She was trapped. Cami was sitting right next to her, talking about the guest list, while Cami’s father was systematically dismantling Ariana’s composure just inches away.

"I... I’m not very hungry," Ariana managed to say, her voice trembling.

Mateo’s hand moved deeper, his fingers finding the center of her tension through the thin fabric. He began to stroke her with a rhythmic, punishing pressure. Ariana let out a soft, involuntary whimper that she tried to cover with a cough.

"Are you coming down with something, Ari?" Cami reached over and touched Ariana’s forehead. "You’re burning up!"

"She’s just overwhelmed," Mateo interjected, his eyes never leaving Ariana’s face. He increased the pressure of his thumb, his gaze challenging her to stay silent, to stay professional, while he ruined her in public. "The holidays can be a very... stimulating time for a young woman. Especially one with so much repressed energy."

Ariana’s head fell back slightly, her eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure began to build, sharp and forbidden. She could feel the dampness soaking into the silk, could feel her own body betraying her loyalty to Cami. Every stroke of Mateo’s hand was a reminder of her shame, yet she found herself arching into his touch, her legs parting just enough to give him more access.

"Dad, stop teasing her," Cami laughed, completely oblivious to the war happening under the table. "She’s a great nurse. She’s not overwhelmed."

"I'm sure she is," Mateo murmured. He leaned in, his shoulder brushing Ariana’s as he reached for his wine. Under the table, his fingers dipped inside the edge of her lace, finding the dripping heat he had heard the night before. "But she’s learning. She’s learning that some things can't be handled alone. Isn't that right, Nina?"

Ariana couldn't speak. She was on the precipice, the friction of his hand and the danger of the setting pushing her toward a cliff. She looked at Cami—innocent, happy Cami—and then at Mateo, the monster who was holding her body in his scarred hands.

"Yes," she whispered, a tear of pure, conflicted ecstasy tracking down her cheek.

Mateo smiled, a dark, victorious thing. He didn't stop until he felt her body shudder against his fingers, a silent, hidden climax that left her gasping for air. Only then did he withdraw his hand, casually wiping his fingers on a linen napkin as if he had simply spilled a drop of wine.

"Eat your dinner, Ariana," he commanded, his voice returning to that cold, clinical edge. "We have a long night ahead of us. And I expect you to be at your best."