She smiled haughtily, inclined her head slightly in confirmation.
I looked to Kyle for help, but he was already pulling back the chairs, gesturing to us all to take our seats, then proffering bottles of wine.
‘Red or white?’ he asked us all as we sat down. ‘We’re keeping it simple tonight: buffalo mozzarella and roasted artichokes, then pasta with a chilli tomato sauce. And lastly my famous home-made chocolate mousse.’
As he began plating up the starters, Kyle continued to chat, probably aware that I was out of my depth. Not that I couldn’t talk to these people, of course – it wasn’t as if I was shy or lacking in chutzpah. But their froideur had raised my hackles: why, I thought, should I do all the running where they were intent on showing me that I was uninteresting to them?
The talk, through much of the meal, was of the classical music and dance worlds, and of mutual friends of the three of them. It was mind-numbingly boring and I didn’t listen to much of it. I wasn’t inclined to intervene and set the conversation on a more interesting course either. Instead, I drank a little too quickly and I gradually zoned out, thinking instead of what might be happening at the club that night. I didn’t miss it, exactly, but I missed the camaraderie with the other girls, the sense of community. For the first time in my life, it occurred to me, I had belonged somewhere. And then I had thrown it all away, in favour of … this.
I was startled out of my musings by Tatiana’s hand on my arm. It felt cold and clammy, even intrusive. I instinctively flinched.
All eyes, I realised, were on me, and it became obvious that someone had just asked me a question that I hadn’t heard.
‘I’m sorry,’ I managed at last. ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’
‘Tatiana was just asking about your line of work,’ said Kyle, and in his eyes I saw a little warning. I didn’t know what he’d already told them about me, but I was guessing that the word ‘stripper’ hadn’t come into the conversation.
My smile was so fake it made my cheeks ache. ‘I’m a dancer, too,’ I said, looking at Tatiana.
She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Where do you dance?’
‘I’m – I’m freelance,’ I said. ‘At different venues in Paris. Modern dance.’
It wasn’t like me to lie. It wasn’t even as if I was ashamed of what I did. But I suddenly felt protective of Kyle, protective of whatever lies he might have told them. Above all, I guess, I didn’t want to embarrass him.
I felt a foot on mine under the table and, assuming it was his way of thanking me for my discretion, flashed him a smile across the table.
He smiled back, and in his eyes I thought I saw, once more, something deeper than kindness or casual friendship – something ardent and even a little greedy. Did he want me, or was it the drink talking – in him, in me, or in both of us?
I stood up and made my way to the toilet. After peeing, I splashed my face with cold water. I had drunk too much, and if I didn’t sober up I risked saying something I might regret. Though my instinct was to protect Kyle, Morgan and Tatiana’s coolness and evident disapproval of me might ignite my temper if I didn’t pay attention.
Smoothing my hair back and my dress down, I stepped out of the toilet. Morgan was leaning against the opposite wall, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. A curious half-smile flickered around his lips. I smiled back.
‘All yours,’ I said.
He stepped towards me. ‘All mine?’ he said, and his smile grew more wolfish. I realised then that it must have been Morgan’s, not Kyle’s, foot under the table, telling me something quite different.
I took a step backward but he continued to approach, and with one arm outstretched, he put a hand on my hip.
I looked towards the dining room. I could hear the low rumble of conversation, interrupted by the odd tinkle of Tatiana’s glassy laugh. From this angle, we couldn’t be seen.
But what was Tatiana to Morgan, anyway? I’d assumed they were a couple, but nothing in their manner or in anything they had said since arriving confirmed that. Perhaps, I thought, they were just friends.
I looked into Morgan’s eyes, combatively, as if to tell him to take his hands off me. But as he did, I felt that old surge of excitement as I realised the power that I had over someone. Morgan had kept it well hidden beneath a veneer of indifference during the meal, but now his eyes smouldered with desire. He wanted me so badly, it hurt. And nothing turned me on so much as when I knew that someone wanted me so much, they’d do almost anything.
Not that I was into humiliating people. But if someone was into abasing themselves in their desire for me, I wouldn’t necessarily stop them – especially if I had a drink or two inside me.
I stepped back into the toilet, yanking Morgan with me.
‘You want me?’ I breathed in his ear as he pulled the door closed behind him.
He moaned with desire. I could feel the hard bulge of him in his linen trousers as we crushed together in the small space. It would be so easy just to take him out and slide his pulsating cock inside me and let him fuck me hard and fast against the wall. Then to take our places back at the dinner table as if nothing had happened, the only things that might arouse suspicion the post-orgasmic glow of our cheeks.
But even knowing that to draw things out would risk alerting Tatiana and Kyle to what was going on, I couldn’t help but lead Morgan on. He couldn’t have me that easily, I told myself, as I inhaled his expensive cologne. It smelled of power and influence, and that confirmed my need to show him who held the reins right now.
I cupped his cock and balls in my hand through his trousers, squeezed them firmly. ‘But what’s in it for me?’ I purred. ‘What can you give me?’
His eyes caught fire. Here, they said, is a challenge. Here is a woman who knows her power. Clasping his hands to the sides of my thighs, he slid down to his knees, pressing his face into my mound through my clothes.
‘I can smell you,’ he groaned. ‘Even through all this. Fucking hell, you turn me on, you horny bitch. What it is with you French chicks?’
‘Oh, so you like French pussy?’ I chuckled. I started to inch up my dress with one hand. ‘Want to see more?’
I saw one of his hands fall to his crotch and release his cock. He started pumping away with one hand, unable to control himself, as his other hand snaked between my legs. Pulling the crotch of my panties to one side, he slid two fingers between my lips and found me dripping wet.
‘Arrrrgh,’ he let out. ‘I can’t …’
I grabbed his arm so he couldn’t jerk himself off any more. He was going to come too soon, and I didn’t want that. I pulled his head towards me, thrust my pussy at him. He dived right in, tongue lapping at my juices like a cat slurping cream.
I was splayed back against the wall, the skirt of my dress bunched up around my waist. As Morgan’s tongue moved expertly over me, flickering in and out of my hole, I lowered one hand and fingered my clit. It didn’t take much – at once I felt my core deliquesce as my climax mounted, inexorably as a tide.
As he felt it approach, Morgan tried to pull away, keen, no doubt, to enter me with his yearning cock. But I was intent on denying him. No one – no one – had me this easily. I pressed his head more firmly against me and came violently, with his tongue still inside me.
Then, perfunctorily, I pulled my panties up and my dress down, smoothed my hair and left the toilet. My crotch was sodden, and my cheeks probably glowed, but otherwise I didn’t think Kyle and Tatiana would be alerted to what had just happened, especially if – as I expected he would – Morgan stayed in the toilet for a while. I figured he’d be wanking himself off now, in a bit of a daze, wondering what had hit him.
I’d