Fine Dining

You booked dinner like it was something innocent.
Safe.
Civilised.

I smiled when I saw the reservation because we both knew better.

I walked in with my signature blonde curls perfectly styled, sharp red lips and long scarlet nails. The dress hugged every curve and my heels echoed with purpose. You looked up and in that moment, I had you.

You rose when I arrived, as you should. You looked at me like you’d been starved. Trying not to look too eager. Adorable.

I kissed you on the cheek. Just a whisper of lips, nothing more and I watched your whole body react.

A private table with low candlelight, crisp linen and crystal glasses. A sommelier hovering discreetly. I nodded and the wine was poured.

You watched me savour an amuse-bouche of scallop and citrus delicately kissed with caviar. Then came oysters and I made a point of licking the shell. Slowly. You had made sure the kitchen knew, no meat. Just the ocean. Just the delicacies that shimmer and melt with every bite.

We moved through courses like a slow seduction.
A saffron risotto with grilled langoustine.
Black cod, buttery and sweet.
Grilled asparagus, fresh from the grill which was finished with lemon and oil pressed from something expensive and unnamed. All the while my hand brushes yours, just long enough to feel the heat.

I told you stories of travel, lovers and sins. Stories that are always just suggestive enough to make you wonder if anyone at the next table could hear us. You didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. You did both.

Dessert was something light. I fed you the first bite. I let it linger on your tongue. When the server offered petit fours, I simply said: “We’ll take the rest upstairs.”

You followed. To the lift. To the suite. To our world.

Once inside, I slipped off my heels. The dress followed. Slowly. You stood still, trying to breathe and trying not to ruin the moment with how badly you needed it.

“I hope you paid attention at dinner.”
You nodded.
“I told you… I like things done slowly.”

Then I let you have me. Not all at once.
In parts. In layers. In rhythm.

That’s the art of the dinner date.
It’s not about the food.
It’s about the hunger.