So, no. Distracting myself with the food didn’t work at all. I was still barely keeping control of my body, which was going haywire, the effort necessary to hold back my orgasm making the need to come all the more potent. The question was, should I tell him how close I was, knowing he’d stop? Or should I keep up the ruse as long as possible, and run the risk of coming in public, possibly loudly and embarrassingly?
Roth reached in front of me, leaning close to whisper in my ear as he grabbed a piece of bread. “You’re close, aren’t you, baby? I know you are. I can feel your tight little pu**y clenching around my fingers.” He slid his fingers into my channel, and I nearly aspirated my bite of salad, a wrenching tremor gripping me. “I should stop now, shouldn’t I? I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself in my friend’s restaurant, would I?”
I shook my head, but whether I meant no, don’t stop or no, don’t make me come, I wasn’t sure. My only other response was to stroke his length from root to tip and then clutch my fist around his head in short, shallow, squeezing strokes. I glanced sideways at him and was rewarded by an expression of tense concentration, as if he, too, was having to focus on holding back as much as I was.
At that moment, though, he withdrew his fingers and slid them back in, then smeared my clit with my juices and circled slowly, and I was unable to hold back a sharp inhalation and a slight lift of my hips.
“Stop, Roth,” I whispered, “Stop. Or I’ll come.”
Roth slowed but didn’t stop, and then Marco appeared in front of us with a plate of giant, cheese-dripping lasagna, another bowl of thick rigatoni and meat sauce, and a third plate of chicken parmesan with a small helping of linguini on the side. And, of course, Roth chose that moment to stroke me just so, just in the right spot with the perfect pressure, and I came. I couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t move, didn’t dare even breathe, and all I could do was feel the explosion rip through me, feeling my pu**y clench like a vise around his thick, sliding fingers, driving the climax higher and hotter. I squeezed Roth’s c**k and squeezed my fork and stared at the table, teeth grinding together and a scream bubbling at my lips.
It was, possibly, the most potent orgasm I’d ever felt, made dirty and scandalous and all the more intense for taking place at a restaurant table in full view of the owner, who was listing the dishes and waxing eloquent on the food he was going to bring out next, and I was still coming, wave after wave crashing through me, making my belly tense and my thighs grip Roth’s hand with crushing pressure….
I couldn’t stop a muffled squeak from escaping.
“Signora? Are you okay?” Marco gave me an odd look.
I nodded, fighting to draw breath. “Yeah—” I coughed to cover another gasp. “Yeah, I just…ahem. Got some salad…in the wrong…down the wrong tube.” I lifted the half-eaten piece of bread in my hand as evidence, then realized my gaffe. “Bread. I meant bread. It’s—good. Oh…so good.” The last phrase came out with shocking intensity, as yet another wave rocked through me, and now Marco was staring at me as if I’d sprouted a second head.
Roth, of course, was perfectly composed, as if his fingers weren’t sliding in out of me in maddeningly slow penetration, driving what seemed to be a never-ending climax.
“It is just garlic bread, signora, my wife’s recipe…if you like it so much, perhaps I could give you the recipe?” Marco glanced from me to Roth in back.
“She’s just overwhelmed,” Roth put in. “It’s her first time in Little Italy.”
“Ah, well, that I understand,” Marco said. “The food here you cannot equal anywhere in the world, perhaps even in Italia. And, of course, you have chosen the best ristorante in Little Italy.”
The orgasm ebbing, I finally regained some kind of control, so I smiled at Marco. “This looks delicious, Marco. I can’t wait to try it all.”
“So, no more of the talking!” Marco gestured grandly at the plates of food. “Mangia!”
I went for the lasagna first, and now that I was in control of my faculties again, I resumed stroking Roth with slow, subtle, feather-light touches, increasing my tempo as I felt him tense beside me, watched his fist grip his fork until it bent under his thumb, his other hand withdrawn from my folds and clutching my leg with iron strength. The pain of his grip on my thigh was worth the knowledge that he was barely holding back. His jaw was clenched, his torso angled forward, his thigh tensed under my arm, his breathing becoming ragged.
His hips lifted once, and then he grabbed my wrist and jerked it away. “Enough,” he growled. He placed both hands flat on the table, head bent, breath coming in long, rasping growls, every muscle in his body tensed as he visibly struggled to hold back. After several long minutes, he finally relaxed and turned to glare at me. “I’m a thirty-six-year-old man, and I almost came in my pants.”
I smiled at him and shrugged. “Turnabout is fair play? You made me come in front of Marco. You think that wasn’t embarrassing?”
“It’s different,” he said.
I frowned. “Oh, yeah?”
“Well, yes. You come, you don’t have to deal with a mess.” He shifted his hips as if uncomfortable. “I’m somewhat…damp…as it is.”
I stuck my fingers under the waist of his jeans to touch his boxers, and felt a large wet circle of pre-come. I grinned at him, withdrawing my hand and threading my fingers through his. “It’s just a little bit. No big deal.”
He gave me a sigh and a shake of his head. “I hadn’t meant to actually make you come. I meant to torture you some more, but the way you come is simply too sexy to resist, and feeling you come around my fingers in the middle of my friend’s restaurant…not making a sound or giving anything away…it was impossible to stop.”
I waited until he had a mouthful of wine before leaning in to whisper in his ear. “It was still torture. Anything less than your c**k inside me is torture. I don’t need to come anymore, Valentine. I just need to feel you inside me.”
He swallowed—with difficulty, it seemed— and set his goblet down hard. “If you have any intention of finishing your meal, you’d better keep such sentiments to yourself.”
I shivered at the blazing heat in his eyes as he delivered the threat. “Oh, yeah? Are you gonna carry me off over your shoulder, caveman-style?”