Fuck her. Fucking fuck her.

Your head is spinning, eyes unfocused. Watery with tears unshed. Not so much to where the snotty business men across the table can tell. Hell no, never that. Never that. But Ada can tell. She can see right through you, and she makes it look so good.

You’re.. restless, to say the least. Trying not to be, even as your thighs squeeze, muscles trembling. Throat working to keep the whine that’s clawing up your tongue down. Especially as the leather booth seat rubs you just right. The dual sensation of that, and her hand, her fingers, is wrecking you from the outside in.

“Dear? The waiter asked you what drink you’ll have, tonight.”

Her causality snaps you out of whatever daze you’re in. The sudden realization that you’re in an upper-class restaurant, with her colleagues—her underlings, hits you like a bucket of ice water.

And, suddenly, you’re scrambling to get yourself back together.