I slip into the restaurant, and the molten amber glow wraps around me like scorching silk, each photon pulsing against my skin, igniting every nerve ending. A low symphony of laughter hums in the air, mingling with the heady aroma of garlic sizzling in oil—so sweet, so primal, it makes my pulse spike. I sink onto the plush banquette beside my friends, raise a frosty wine glass to my lips, and tremble at the thought of that first sip roaring through me like liquid flame.

Then the door crashes open, and there he stands—Aaron, devastatingly handsome, shoulders squared, every step a declaration of dominion. My heart nearly shatters against my ribs; my breath stalls. Our eyes meet, fuse, and the air crackles as though we’re two live wires shorting out in a single spark. My fingers constrict the stem of my glass until I taste iron.

My friends prattle on, blissfully unaware, but I’m drowning in his gaze. Heat floods my cheeks, plunges in tight coils between my thighs, and I can feel the pulse hammering at my temples. I force a shaky smile, mutter an excuse, and bolt—heels clattering like gunshots across the marble floor.

Inside the ladies’ room I press my back into the cool marble, gulping air raggedly. The mirror reflects frantic eyes, lips swollen with want—I barely recognize this trembling woman undone by desire. Every millimeter of my skin thrums like it’s alive. My heart pounds so loudly that I swear I can taste it on my tongue.

I slip into the farthest stall and lock the door. My hand shakes as I hitch my dress upward; my fingertips ghost over that forbidden lace, sending electric jolts straight to my core. I close my eyes and conjure his hands—large, possessive, hauling me against closed doors. His breath, hot and urgent, skates across my neck. A soft, unbidden moan escapes.

The fantasy coils tighter. I imagine Aaron’s fingers—bold, commanding—displacing mine, plunging into me with a hungry insistence. I bite my lower lip to stifle the sound, every nerve on fire.

On a reckless impulse, I fish out my phone. My fingers tremble as I angle the camera, capturing the lace stretched taut, my moaning mouth parted in lust. The flash burns that moment into eternity. I see his face cracked with raw need.

A sharp knock shatters my haze. “Nikki? You okay?” Megan’s voice edged with worry, drags me back. I press a finger to my lips. “One sec.” One final, quivering selfie—then I slick my hair back and slip free.

At the basin I splash ice-cold water on my face, trying to wash away the fevered proof of my abandon. My reflection peers back—harried, luminous, lips still parted. I steady my breathing, smooth my dress, steel my spine.

Back at the table, Megan eyes me. “You good?” I force a laugh that curdles in my throat. “Just a bit dizzy.” She arches an eyebrow. “Your pasta’s here—and Aaron’s staring.” My stomach lurches. I manage a shrug, swallow hard, and pick at my carbonara, every bite tastes like ash.

Suddenly Lisa whispers, “He’s coming.” My head snaps up. I watch him cross the room, each confident step a fresh drumbeat in my chest. He reaches us and tilts his head — his slow smile touching his lips but not his eyes—they’re dark, hungry.

“Nikki,” he murmurs, voice velvet-coated steel, “Didn’t expect to find you here.”

I choke out, “Aaron,” my voice cracking like glass.

He drapes a hand over the back of my chair, his fingertips brushing my shoulder. Sparks shoot down my spine. My throat goes dry.

“How’s the Donovan proposal?” he asks, every word laced with that controlled power.

I swallow a moan. “On track. I’ll have the numbers Monday.”

His lips curl. “Good. Maybe over coffee—8:30?”

My pulse detonates. “I’d like that,” I whisper, surprised by my own daring.

A friend calls his name, and he withdraws with one last searing brush.

“See you Monday, Nikki.” His words linger in the charged space between us.

He melts back into the crowd. Lisa’s eyes go wide. “Whoa. I felt that.”

I jab at my pasta. “Sure you did,” I breathe, heart still racing.

After the check arrives, I flee home. Inside, I strip to black lace panties already damp with anticipation, then collapse onto the couch. My fingers slide between my thighs, stroking the wet ache, coaxing it higher. Eyes closed, I imagine it’s Aaron—his body pressing mine into the cushions, his palm sweeping over my breast, thumb circling my nipple until I’m a moaning ruin.

The fantasy swells. I picture him kneeling, dark eyes devouring me as he murmurs, “You belong to me.” I gasp and press hotter, faster. The couch creaks under my hips.

My phone glows like a beacon. On impulse, I open the camera. The blue light drapes over my bare skin as I snap a shot—hand buried in lace, chest heaving, hair mussed in perfect abandon. I imagine sending it. Imagining feels like torture.

“Master…” I whisper into the empty room, thumb hovering over his name. One tap. Everything changes.

I press send. The message blazes across the line: "Thinking of you, Master."

Then silence. My chest tightens. My rational mind yells about boundaries, harassment—then I silence it. Because beneath reason, a deeper drumbeat urges me on.

Three minutes crawl by. Five. Ten. My stomach knots into barbed wire. The phone buzzes. I snatch it up, pulse thundering.

His reply: "Beautiful. But inadequate."

My breath seizes. Before I can dissect his meaning, another message appears: Show me what you were thinking. All of it. Now, Submissive.

Heat floods my veins. My fingers shake as I gather the trembling selfies—the ones with my tongue curled around the lace, with desire dripping from my eyes—and fire them at him in a frenzied cascade.

Three tiny dots blink as he types. I hold my breath.

"Good girl. I’ve wanted to see you like this for so long."

A fresh tide of relief and arousal crashes through me. Then comes his next command: "Monday morning, 8 AM. My office, not the café. Wear the black pencil skirt and that blue silk blouse—nothing underneath. Come prepared to discuss more than the Donovan proposal."

My world tilts. I read it three times, my heart pounding so loudly I can’t hear anything else. The raw authority in his words has me trembling.

"Yes, Master," I type, fingers dancing in a frenzy of typos.

"Good. Now go to bed. Alone. No more touching tonight. I want you desperate for me on Monday."

I whimper at the delicious ache that coils in my belly. His control stretches across the miles, binding me.

"Yes, Master. Goodnight."

"Sweet dreams, Submissive."