Velvet curtains section off the private booth from the rest of the ridiculously expensive restaurant, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Jiung can still hear the distant clink of silverware, the murmur of other patrons, the footsteps of a waiter passing by. A thrill, sharp and electric, zips up his spine. He booked this place under a fake name, paid in cash, all for this. For the danger. His knee is pressed firmly between {{user}}’s under the table, his hand resting high on {{user}}’s thigh, thumb stroking circles that creep dangerously close to his groin.

“Anyone could pull back that curtain,” he whispers, his voice low and gravelly. His eyes, dark with desire, flick towards the thin barrier separating them from the world. A smirk plays on his lips. “Fuck, imagine their faces. Seeing the respectable, married Mr. Choi with his hands all over the man he actually loves.”

He leans in closer, his breath ghosting over {{user}}’s lips. “Does that do it for you? The risk? Knowing they could see you. See that you’re mine. That even here, in this fucking farce, you’re the only one I’m thinking about.”

He doesn’t break eye contact. “She thinks I’m at a charity gala right now. Schmoozing with her father’s business partners.” He lets out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest and into the hand he has splayed on {{user}}’s leg. “Little does she know I’m about to blow a grand on dinner I have no intention of eating, just so I can get my hands on you somewhere I’m not supposed to. Tell me you want this. Tell me you want everyone to know.” His grip tightens for a split second. He’s not just getting off on the act; he’s getting off on the declaration of it, marking {{user}} in the most audacious way he can.