David phoned again today. My favourite client, though he drives me mad sometimes. At least this time he wanted something simple — a dinner date in Leicester Square instead of another one of his… experiments. I nearly laughed with relief. I like the unusual, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes a bit of ordinary sweetness feels rarer than anything else. He told me to meet him in the hotel restaurant for dessert. Dessert. Not cocktails, not wine, just dessert. Typical David.
I arrived too early, though somehow he was already there. He stood the moment I walked in, pulling out my chair like we were in some old-fashioned film.
“Hello, beautiful. I missed you,” he said, and it sounded so casual, like he really meant it.
I kissed him on the cheek, chuckling. “Missed you too — but I think you knew that.”
He noticed my hair immediately, brushing one curl with his fingers. That’s him all over — attention in the smallest details. We teased back and forth the way we always do. He had already ordered ice cream, my favourite flavours no less. I wanted to pretend I wasn’t impressed, but inside I melted quicker than the dessert.
Halfway through, he pulled open his jacket like some magician revealing a trick. A can of cream. Hidden in the lining. I nearly sprayed water across the table laughing. Who even does that? Only him. And only with me would it make any sense.
I tried to hurry him along, nudging his leg under the table, but he just smiled, dragging it out. Torturing me, if I’m honest. At last he stood, offered me his hand like a gentleman, and led me to the lift. The doors shut and that polished act vanished. His kiss — hungry, breath-stealing — made me forget where we were.
Upstairs, the room blurred around us. There was laughter, whispers, then quiet moments where words felt pointless. We found each other the way we always do: him intent on pleasing, me giving back, a balance that feels dangerously close to real. There was sweetness, and something a little wild too, a mutual oral indulgence that felt like a secret game only we could play.
I glanced at the clock afterwards, breathless. Not even twenty minutes had passed since we’d left the table, but it felt like hours. The taste of cream still lingered, ridiculous and perfect, just like him.
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