Dinner With Intent

The restaurant was just the right kind of expensive.

Soft jazz playing. Warm gold lighting. Waiters who moved like shadows. Tables spaced far enough apart that voices lowered naturally, like secrets might spill if spoken too loud.

He was already there.

My client.

Tailored navy suit. Handsome in a corporate, clean kind of way. The kind of man whose Rolex said more than his wedding band.

He stood when he saw me. “Joelle.”

His gaze dropped.

Paused.

Came back up.

Too slow.

I let him look. Let him scan the silhouette of the dress. The deep cut of my neckline. The way it curved around my hips like it was scared to let go.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said, sliding into the booth, one leg crossing deliberately over the other.

My thigh peeked out. Just enough to be noticed.

Just enough to say I know what I’m doing.

⸻

He ordered the wine before I even opened the menu. Confident. Assertive.

But I saw the way his eyes flicked to my lips when I sipped.

The way he lost his place mid-sentence when I leaned forward, elbows on the table, neckline dipping just slightly more.

I could feel the air shift.

The way men try to hide arousal behind ambition.

He asked about my projections.

I gave him numbers, graphs, trends.

But my body spoke another language entirely.

My knees drifted open beneath the table. Not wide — just enough.

I saw the way his gaze kept flicking downward, then back to my face.

The clench in his jaw.

The fidget in his fingers.

He was thinking about it.

About what was under the table.

What wasn’t.

That was the real meeting happening tonight.

⸻

Midway through the second glass of wine, I felt my phone buzz under the table.

Him.

Of course.

I didn’t check it right away.

Let it sit there, burning against my thigh.

Let him wait.

He was probably lying in bed. Shirtless. Hard.

Staring at my location. Imagining things I hadn’t even done yet — but might.

I finally looked, casually, as my client excused himself for the restroom.

“You’re taking your time.”

I typed slowly. One-handed.

“He’s asking a lot of questions about my package.”

And then I deleted it.

Smiled to myself.

Too cruel.

I sent instead:

“We’re still talking. I’ll come back soon.”

Lie.

He’d smell the wine on my breath.

He’d see the shimmer between my thighs when I peeled off this dress.

He’d see the imprint of where I sat, warm and slick with knowing.

⸻

My client returned. His tie was loosened now.

He looked at me a little too long before speaking.

“You always carry yourself like this?”

“Like what?” I asked, tilting my head. My voice light. Innocent.

But under the table, my heel slid along his calf.

He tensed.

The silence between us was no longer professional.

“I just meant… confident. You know your worth.”

I smiled, letting the meaning sit between us.

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m worth,” I said softly, sipping again.

I didn’t touch him again.

Didn’t need to.

⸻

By the time the check came, he was leaning a little too far forward. Smiling a little too often. Fidgeting with his pen while writing his number on the back of the receipt.

I didn’t stop him.

Didn’t promise anything either.

I just looked him in the eye and said: “Thank you for dinner.”

And as I turned to leave, I felt every pair of eyes follow me out.

Especially the ones that weren’t in the room.

⸻

Back in the car, I let the seat recline. Just slightly.

Slid my hand between my thighs, pressing softly through the damp lace.

Closed my eyes.

I pictured his face.

But it wasn’t my client.

It was him.

My boyfriend. My owner.

I imagined his face when I’d walk through the door.

Eyes dark with fury.

Jaw clenched.

Hands itching to grab.

And I smiled.

Because I knew he wouldn’t say a word.

But he’d fuck me like he hated me.

And I’d let him.