The restaurant buzzed with evening chatter, ambient lighting casting a warm glow over the white tablecloths. Craig fidgeted with his watch, checking the time again as he scanned the entrance. His dating profile hadn't prepared him for the woman who walked through the door.
Heather moved with deliberate grace, her burgundy dress clinging to curves that drew every male eye in the establishment. Her dark hair cascaded past her shoulders, framing features that balanced between innocent and knowing. Craig stood awkwardly as she approached.
"You must be Craig." Heather extended her hand, her grip firmer than he expected. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long."
"Not at all." His voice cracked slightly. "I just got here myself."
A lie they both recognized.
Heather slid into her seat, crossing her legs slowly enough to draw his gaze. "I made reservations at three different restaurants tonight." Her crimson lips curved into a smile. "I like to keep my options open."
Craig signaled the waiter, desperate for a drink. "And what made you choose this one?"
"I wanted somewhere... intimate." Heather leaned forward, her neckline revealing just enough to make imagination necessary. "Somewhere we could really get to know each other."
Throughout appetizers, she maintained eye contact that bordered on inappropriate, occasionally biting her lower lip when he spoke. Her questions probed beyond first-date territory, inquiring about his fantasies, his preferences.
"You seem tense," Heather observed halfway through their entrées. She shifted her chair closer, their knees touching beneath the table. "You should relax."
Her hand found his thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns that moved steadily upward. Craig nearly choked on his wine.
"Problem?" Heather's expression was innocence perfected while her hand continued its exploration. Her thumb brushed dangerously close to his growing hardness. "Oh my," she whispered, eyes widening with mock surprise. "Is that for me already?"
Craig struggled to maintain composure as her fingers traced the outline through his pants. The waiter approached with dessert menus, completely unaware of the activity beneath the tablecloth.
"Two glasses of wine," Heather ordered without consultation. When the waiter departed, she squeezed gently. "Looks like someone's excited to get to know me better."
"Heather, we're in public--"
"And you're hard as a rock." Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Did that happen the moment I walked in, or did it take until my hand found your thigh?" Her fingers continued their torturous exploration. "I bet you're aching in those tight pants, aren't you?"
Heather's fingertips traced the rigid outline of Craig's cock through his jeans, the pressure light enough to be maddening. She maintained unwavering eye contact while her thumb circled the sensitive head, already detecting a small damp spot forming beneath the denim.
"I love how hard you are," she whispered, leaning closer. Her breath tickled his ear.
Craig's breathing quickened as her palm pressed firmly against his length, sliding up and down with deliberate slowness. The fabric created a tantalizing friction that made his hips instinctively push upward.
"Stay still," Heather commanded softly, her free hand reaching for her wine glass. "Don't make it obvious what I'm doing to you."
Her fingers curled around his shaft, squeezing rhythmically while maintaining the appearance of casual dinner conversation. Craig's cheeks flushed crimson as her hand worked faster, the outline of his erection straining visibly against his jeans.
"God, you're so hard," she purred. "I can feel every inch of you through these pants."
A young waitress approached their table, blonde ponytail bouncing with each step. Her name tag read "Tiffany."
"Are you ready to order your main courses?" Tiffany asked brightly, pen poised over her notepad.
Heather's hand never stopped its rhythmic stroking. "I'll have the filet mignon," she said smoothly. "Medium rare."
Craig opened his mouth to speak just as Heather's thumb pressed firmly against the sensitive underside of his cock head. His voice caught in his throat.
"Sir? What would you like?" Tiffany's cheerful smile never faltered.
"He'll have the..." Heather began, increasing her pace beneath the table.
"I can order for myself," Craig managed, his voice strained. He gripped the edge of the table as Heather's fingers traced his length with exquisite pressure. "The, um, salmon please."
Tiffany scribbled on her pad. "How would you like that cooked?"
Heather's palm pressed harder, moving in tight circles over the head of his cock. Craig's thighs tensed as pleasure surged through him.
"Medium," he choked out. "Medium is fine."
"Perfect! I'll be back with your orders soon." Tiffany collected their menus and departed, completely oblivious to Craig's predicament.
"You handled that well," Heather whispered, her hand now rubbing his entire length with firm, determined strokes. "But I felt you throb when she was looking at you. Did that turn you on, being touched while she watched?"
Craig's eyes widened and he shook his head slightly. "That's not--I wasn't--"
