Up close and personal: in Madeo Restaurant

She stepped into Madeo like she owned every inch of it. Blonde hair loose, ass swaying in a dress that barely knew the meaning of mercy. The hostess barely got a hello out before her date was guiding her toward the back table, hand resting low on her hip. Dinner started polite. Wine. Bread. Then her foot slipped out of her heel and found his lap under the white cloth. He didn’t flinch. Just poured her more Chianti while her toes pressed and teased until the front of his trousers grew tight. She smiled over the rim of her glass, all innocence, and slid lower in her chair until her knee brushed the underside of the table. When the waiter stepped away she leaned in, whispered something filthy, and the napkin on his lap shifted. Her fingers followed, quick and sure, working his zipper in the half-light between courses. She stroked him slow, palm warm, eyes never leaving his while linguine twirled on her fork like nothing at all was happening beneath the linen. Later she stood to “powder her nose,” and he followed. The single-occupancy restroom smelled of lemon and warm tile. She bent over the sink without a word, dress hiked, panties already damp at the crotch. He pushed inside her in one smooth thrust, both of them watching their reflection fog. Her ass bounced each time his hips met hers, skin slapping sharp against the quiet hum of the restaurant outside the door. She came biting her own wrist to stay quiet, then reached back to stroke him until he pulled out and painted the small of her back in thick, warm stripes. They straightened clothes, shared a grin in the mirror, and walked back to dessert like nothing had happened—except the wet spot on her seat and the satisfied tilt of her smile.