Chapter 2: The Taste

The restaurant was a temple of understated luxury—exposed brick walls, Edison bulb fixtures casting warm pools of light, and the kind of silence that only money could buy. The single table set for two dominated the space, its polished mahogany surface gleaming like dark water under the candlelight.

Damien's hand never left the small of Elara's back as he guided her through the empty space. Each step echoed in the silence, amplifying the tension crackling between them. She could feel his eyes on her, cataloguing every subtle movement, every breath.

"This is excessive," she said, though her voice lacked any real protest. If anything, the sheer audacity of it thrilled her. Who was this man who could empty an entire restaurant with a phone call?

"I told you," he replied, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her bones. "I don't like sharing."

They reached the table, and instead of pulling out her chair like a gentleman, Damien turned her to face him. His hands settled on her waist, fingers splaying wide enough to span her ribcage. Even through the fabric of her dress, his touch burned.

"You came to that club looking for something," he said, his dark eyes searching her face. "What was it?"

Elara's pulse quickened under his intense scrutiny. Most men asked vapid questions—her major, her sign, her favorite color. This man cut straight to the heart of things, demanding truth.

"Intensity," she answered honestly. "Something real."

His lips curved in that barely-there smile that was more dangerous than any grin. "Careful what you wish for."

Before she could respond, his mouth was on hers. Not gentle, not asking permission—claiming. His kiss was hungry, demanding, the kind that rewrote a woman's definition of passion. Elara's hands fisted in the lapels of his perfectly tailored jacket, pulling him closer as she kissed him back with equal fervor.

When they broke apart, she was breathless, her lips swollen and tingling. Damien's eyes had gone almost black with desire, his control cracking just enough to let her glimpse the predator beneath.

"Dinner can wait," he said, his voice rougher now.

In one fluid motion, he lifted her onto the edge of the mahogany table. The cool wood against her thighs made her gasp, the sensation sharp and grounding amid the haze of desire clouding her thoughts.

"What are you—" she began, but the words died as his hands found the hem of her dress.

"I'm going to taste you," he said simply, as if discussing the weather. "Every inch."

His fingers traced up her thighs with maddening slowness, each touch sending sparks racing along her nerve endings. When he reached the lace edge of her panties, he paused, his thumb stroking along the delicate fabric.

"Tell me to stop," he commanded, his voice deadly serious. "If you want me to stop, say it now."

Elara met his gaze, seeing the barely leashed hunger there, the way his jaw clenched with the effort of restraint. This was her last chance to retreat to safety, to the predictable world she'd been trying to escape.

Instead, she reached behind her neck and slowly lowered the zipper of her dress.

The sound seemed impossibly loud in the silent restaurant. Damien's eyes followed the path of the zipper with laser focus, his breathing growing heavier as more skin was revealed.

"That's my girl," he murmured, and the possessive endearment sent heat pooling between her thighs.

He peeled the dress from her shoulders with reverent care, as if unwrapping the world's most precious gift. When the fabric pooled around her waist, leaving her torso bare except for a black lace bra, he actually groaned.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his hands spanning her ribcage, thumbs brushing just beneath her breasts. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

His mouth found her throat, lips and teeth working against her pulse point until she was arching beneath him, soft whimpers escaping her lips. He mapped her collarbone with his tongue, traced the delicate hollow at the base of her throat, each touch deliberate and claiming.

When his mouth closed over her nipple through the lace, Elara cried out, her hands tangling in his dark hair. He lavished attention on each breast until the fabric was damp and clinging, until she was writhing on the table and begging for more.

"Please," she gasped, not even sure what she was asking for.

"Please what?" His voice was muffled against her skin, but she could hear the smile in it.

"Touch me. I need—"

"I know what you need."

His hands made quick work of removing the rest of her barriers, leaving her completely exposed on the polished wood. The vulnerability should have been terrifying, but instead it was intoxicating. Under his hungry gaze, she felt like a goddess, powerful and desired.

When his mouth finally found her center, Elara's back arched off the table with a scream that echoed through the empty restaurant. He was thorough, relentless, using lips and tongue and teeth to drive her higher and higher until she was sobbing with need.

"That's it," he murmured against her sensitive flesh. "Let me hear you. No one can hear us but me."

The reminder of their complete privacy only heightened her arousal. She could be as loud as she wanted, could abandon every pretense of control. When the climax finally crashed over her, she screamed his name until her throat was raw.

As she lay trembling on the table, struggling to catch her breath, Damien stood and began loosening his tie. The sight of him—still fully clothed while she lay naked and sated—should have made her feel exposed. Instead, it made her feel powerful. She had reduced this controlled, dangerous man to barely leashed hunger.

"My turn," she said, sliding off the table on unsteady legs.

Before he could react, she pushed him back into one of the restaurant chairs, her hands already working at his belt. His eyes widened slightly—the first crack in his composure she'd seen all night.

"Elara—"

"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips. "I told you I wanted intensity. Let me show you what that means to me."

Her eyes caught the bottle of chocolate syrup sitting forgotten on a nearby service cart—clearly meant for dessert. A wicked smile curved her lips as she retrieved it, holding it up so he could see.

"What are you planning?" His voice was strained, his hands gripping the arms of the chair.

Instead of answering, she knelt between his legs and slowly drizzled the chocolate across his chest and abs. His muscles jumped under the cool liquid, a sharp intake of breath the only sound he made.

"I'm going to taste every inch of you," she said, echoing his earlier words. "And I'm going to take my time."

She started at his throat, her tongue following the sticky-sweet trail downward. His skin was hot beneath her mouth, salty and masculine with an undertone of expensive cologne. When she reached his nipple, she bit down gently, and his hips bucked beneath her.

"Fuck," he groaned, his carefully maintained control finally cracking.

She worked her way lower, cleaning every drop of chocolate with meticulous attention. By the time she reached her ultimate destination, he was trembling, his hands fisted so tightly in her hair it almost hurt.

When she finally took him in her mouth, his control shattered completely. The controlled, dangerous man disappeared, replaced by someone desperate and hungry and utterly at her mercy. She reveled in the power, in the way he said her name like a prayer.

When he finally found his release, it was with a broken groan that seemed torn from his very soul. She stayed where she was until the tremors subsided, then slowly worked her way back up his body, pressing soft kisses to cooling skin.

He pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her possessively. For several long minutes, they simply held each other, hearts hammering in sync as the intensity slowly faded to something manageable.

"That was..." he began, then trailed off, seeming uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

"Intense?" Elara suggested with a satisfied smile.

His laugh was rough but genuine. "That's one word for it."

He stood, lifting her with him as if she weighed nothing. His clothes were rumpled, his hair mussed from her fingers, and there was something deeply satisfying about seeing him disheveled.

"Where are we going now?" she asked as he began gathering their scattered clothing.

His eyes met hers, dark and full of promise. "My place. Because sweetheart, the night's just getting started."

The words sent a fresh wave of desire racing through her exhausted body. Whatever this was between them—this explosive chemistry, this battle of wills—it was far from over.

And Elara couldn't wait to see what came next.