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I in turn gave him a daring smile, palming his tented jeans. Each of us had one hand on the table, the other hidden beneath. Marco vanished, shouting through into the kitchen.
 

Roth held my gaze, curling his finger inside me, grazing my still-sensitive nub. “I hope you like Italian,” he said conversationally.

“It’s my favorite.” I slid my hand up and down the iron length of his denim-clad erection.

“Good, because when you eat at Marco’s, you eat until you’re bursting.”

“Well, I’m ravenous,” I said, working his length slowly with my fingers. “Simply famished.”

Roth’s eyes narrowed, and his finger matched my tempo, stroking me with slow, teasing touches. “Me, too.”

Marco’s arrival precluded more awkward innuendo, and he set down a dark, dusty bottle of wine, a carafe, and two glasses. “A very fine ’75 cabernet,
signore
. I’ve been saving it for a very special time, and I think this is it.”
 

He uncorked the bottle, then wiped the rim with a cloth napkin. There was a metallic screen filter at the mouth of the carafe, and Marco very slowly and carefully poured the ruby liquid through the screen and into the carafe, leaving an inch or so of thick sediment at the bottom of the bottle and a scrim of sediment on the filter. This done, he tilted one of the glasses almost horizontal and poured a small amount of wine, then handed the glass to Roth, who swirled it several times before taking a small sip.

“That’s fantastic, Marco. Thank you.” Roth handed the glass back to Marco with an appreciative nod.

You wouldn’t know, judging from the impassive expression on Roth’s face, that he was rhythmically curling his finger inside me, brushing against the very tip of my clit, sending bolt after bolt of pleasure through me. I had his erection pinched between my finger and thumb, but knew if I moved my arm the motion would be apparent, so I merely squeezed him up near the tip. It was a game, and I was losing. All he had to do was crook his finger, and spasms shot through me. It took every ounce of strength and control I possessed to not move, to not gasp, to act normal as Marco filled both glasses halfway and set them before us. He bustled away, but before I could open my mouth to ask Roth to stop, Marco was back with a plate of garlic bread and two small side salads.

Roth picked up his salad fork and dug in, while I opted for a slice of bread. Both of us used Marco’s absence as an excuse to ramp up the intensity of our game. He slid a second finger into me and pressed the tips against my clit and stroked slow and soft, while I dug my hand, thumb and forefinger first, between his jeans and boxers to clutch bare skin. I squeezed him hard, once, twice, and then loosened my grip and slid my fist down, then gave him an involuntarily hard clench as he slid the slick nub of my clit between his two fingers and tugged on it, making my entire body jerk with the onset of climax.
 

I swallowed the bite of bread and took another, chewing slowly to disguise my inner turmoil. The bread was actually the most delicious garlic bread I’d ever had, at once soft enough to melt in my mouth yet crunchy at the crust, buttery and bursting with flavor. I washed it down with a sip of the wine, which was unlike anything I’d ever tasted it. I only took the most conservative of sips, yet the flavor exploded in my mouth, washing over my tongue, a flavor so thick you could almost chew it, the liquid sliding down my throat and warming my entire body as it went down.
 

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 pussy 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 pussy clench like a vise around his thick, sliding fingers, driving the climax higher and hotter. I squeezed Roth’s cock 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.

“I—no, um—”
 

“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 cock 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?”

“I might.” He took another swallow of wine, a bite of pasta, another swallow of wine, and a bite of bread. “Eat. You’ll need your strength, love. I guarantee you that.”

I ate, feeling a clench in my core at the implication in his words. I couldn’t help pushing him. “You wouldn’t really, though. You’re too dignified for that.”

 
He only spared me a brief glance. “Wouldn’t what?”

“Carry me off caveman-style.”

“Oh, no?” Roth quirked an eyebrow at me, as if amused, then glanced away, toward the kitchen. “MARCO!”
 

Marco came scurrying. “
Signore
?”

“Box this up for us. Cork the wine as well.” He glanced at me, his eyes sparking pale blue fire. “Something has…come up.”

“Certainly, of course. May I ask, is everything—”

“It is wonderful, as always, Marco. Kyrie and I merely have some…personal business to attend to.”

Marco shifted in place uncomfortably, perhaps realizing what Roth meant. “Of course, sir.
Un momento, per favore.
” He bustled away quickly, calling out in Italian.

Roth, meanwhile, merely continued to eat leisurely, chasing each bite with a small sip of wine. I tried to emulate him, acting unconcerned and casual, but I was entirely unsuccessful. I wasn’t afraid, per se, knowing he would never actually hurt me, but I was nervous, anxious, wondering if he really was about to sling me over his shoulder like some kind of ape-man. That would be embarrassing, to say the least.
 

I ate a few more bites and finished the thick ruby wine in my glass, just as Marco was returning with carryout cartons. He swiftly and efficiently boxed up the food, stacking the containers in a paper bag, then stuffed the cork into the bottle of wine and placed that in the bag as well. He made a face of disapproval as he corked the bottle.

“This wine,
signore
, it should not sit this way for long, it must breathe—”

Roth slid smoothly out of the booth and stood up, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Yes, Marco. I understand. Thank you.” He pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his blazer, rifled through the bills, and then, with an impatient huff, simply tossed the entire stack on the table.
 

I saw, at one quick glance, at least five or six hundred-dollar bills, and that was merely what was on the bottom. There had to be a thousand dollars there, I surmised. Before I could process another thought, Roth had replaced his wallet and was turning to me. I moved out of the booth and stood up, straightened my dress, and moved toward the door.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Roth’s voice was quiet yet laced with potency.
 

“Roth—”

He didn’t let me finish. He stepped in front of me, ducked his shoulder, and swept me up. I shrieked in protest as my belly hit his shoulder, but then we were moving through the low, narrow hallway and out the door. I caught a glimpse of Marco, watching, stunned, by the booth, the stack of bills forgotten in his hand.
 

Outside, the night was warm and still, the driving wind from earlier in the day having abated. I had barely a second to process the sounds of New York—horns, voices, air brakes squealing, sirens in the distance— and the smell of the alley—garlic and cooking food undercut by the sour-sickly tang of garbage—and then Roth was opening the passenger door with one hand, my entire weight on his shoulder, his arm across my thighs holding me in place.

“Put me down!” I hissed. “I believe you, okay?”

“Too late for that.” He gave my ass a hard smack, hard enough to make me gasp as the sting of his palm shot through me. “Far too late.” Another smack, on the other side, this one hard enough to startle me into an undignified squeak of protest.

“All right! I’m sorry!” In the spirit of the moment, I pounded on his back with my fists, the only correct thing to do when slung over a man’s shoulder.

“Sorry?” He sounded genuinely amused. “You don’t need to be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. You simply challenged me out of the last of my self-control.” He smoothed his palm over my still-stinging ass, and then gave me a third hard slap, this one bordering on actual pain.