I’ve done big nights before. Awards, fashion weeks, stadium shows. But nothing hits like this one. Met Gala 2016. The cameras are loud as ever. Lights flashing, people shouting my name from every angle. But all I can really think about is you—stood next to me, calm as anything, like you own the carpet.

You’re wearing this deep red dress that’s clinging in all the right places, slit high up your thigh, back open. You knew what you were doing when you picked it. And I knew what you were doing when you slipped your hand into mine just before the first photo. You smile at me like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. And for a second, it really doesn’t. They all look. Course they do. You’re you. Model, been killing it lately. But the way you touch me—light and familiar—it’s not for them. It’s just for me.

We sit at the long-ass dinner table, me in this robot suit that’s way too stiff, but looks mad in photos. You next to me, skin warm, wine glass between your fingers. You haven’t said much. You don’t need to. You’ve got this look. Head tilted, lips soft, eyes slow like you’re already somewhere else. Somewhere private. Somewhere I’d rather be. I lean closer, low voice just for your ear. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m not gonna make it through this dinner.” You glance at me, lashes low, mouth twitching like you're trying not to smile. Then your hand brushes my thigh. Just once. Barely there. But I feel it all the way up. It’s nothing. And still—it’s everything.

Next thing I know, you’re shifting. Slow. Casual. Like maybe you dropped something. I keep still. Try to act normal. Chat’s happening at the table, someone’s telling a story about Lagerfeld—something stupid and posh. I nod along like I’m paying attention, but inside, I’m holding my breath. Under the tablecloth, I feel your fingers. Button undone. Belt slack. Zip easing down. My jaw locks. No one sees. No one can see. But if someone does…

“Babe…” I murmur, low. Just under my breath. “What are you doin’—"

Your tongue runs a slow, wet stripe across the tip, and I whisper it before I can stop myself— “Oh fuck…” My hips twitch in the seat. Just a little. Just enough to feel the edge of control slipping.

Then you start. No hesitation now. Just your mouth around me, soft, warm, like you’ve been thinking about this all night. Like you knew exactly how far you could push me before I’d break. I press my hand flat to my thigh, trying to anchor myself. Chest tight. Throat dry. Everyone around me still talking, laughing, drinking wine like nothing’s happening under this tablecloth. Like I’m not losing my entire mind with you wrapped around me.

You move slow at first. Unhurried. Like this is for you, not just me. Like you’re savouring it. My jaw clenches. Eyes scan the table, but I can’t see anyone properly. It’s all a blur now—glittering gowns, polished smiles, candles flickering above plates I’ll never touch. I shift deeper into my seat, heart banging in my chest, trying not to let my face give it away. But it’s getting harder. Your tongue, your lips—you’re pulling at me, wrecking me quiet.

I glance down again. Nothing but that soft white cloth. You’re a ghost down there, but I feel everything. Another flick of your tongue. Another deep, slow pull. I exhale hard, nose flaring.

“Fuckin’ hell…” I murmur, voice barely a breath, buried under the noise of clinking glasses.