There's an idea. Mmm.
"Yes," I murmur in her ear during the speeches, "they're always this dull."
"You're not meant to talk," she whispers, though her hand finds mine anyway and she squeezes, just once. "It's rude."
"Blah blah, save the animals," I mumble into her neck. She smells like almonds tonight; a new perfume, perhaps. My little lion's all grown up.
"So let's leave."
Several of our fellow tablemates glance over, annoyed. I raise my eyebrows in apology.
"Somebody's eager to get home," I say quietly.
She says nothing. Just stares ahead at yet another anorexic young actress wining the Vacant Vegan of the Year award. I'm a firm believer in rewarding people for the useful things they do. You don't want to eat animals? Fine. So how come the whole thing turns into a back-slapping circus where people congratulate themselves on the things they don't do? It's just fucking lazy.
Montgomery isn't a happy bunny tonight. His usual smarmy dialogue is missing; cat's got his jowls. Gretchen Piers is just a couple tables away; maybe she's making him antsy? There's an air of eau de pissed around his wife too, who has downed enough champagne for three Tuijas but barely says a word. She's an improvement on dried-out Wife Number Two—looks like one of those Amazonian Swedish tennis players, all lean long legs and white-blond hair—but her nerves get the better of her.
On several occasions tonight, she's cast a glance my way. I guess she picked the wrong media mogul, huh? I wonder, given the opportunity, how many girls would let a man like me cut them if it kept them away from a grotesque old cunt like Montgomery...? He's noticed his wife looking at me. Hates it.
I drag Leo's hand to the strain of my stiff cock, and lean into whisper again. "You're gonna take care of that for me as soon as we find the car."
"Oh really?" She drags her thumb across the bulbous head of me.
Ah, fuck. I grit my teeth. "When the speeches are done, we're leaving." She's been busy with work, with letting her wound heal; I've been busy having secrets. We've both been waiting for tonight.
The speeches break as the presenters switch, and a waiter in a white tuxedo stops to take drinks orders.
"I'm good," I tell him, patting the top of my half-empty glass.
Montgomery fiddles with his tie, eyes me, and then smiles at the waiter. "Do you have Glen Fiddich? I could murder a single malt."
Unintentionally, my hand crushes down on Leo's and she yelps, shaking me off. Heat scrapes my cheeks, makes my skin prickle.
"Sorry there, Aeron. That was insensitive of me." He gives a vague smile. "Too much champagne. What can I say?"
Wife Number Three winces in apology. She may as well have sorry he's a dick written across her forehead. I give her my best yeah, and he's your dick sigh of acknowledgement.
"You know, Leo and I should be making a move," I tell the table. "We have plans."
It's childish to stomp off when you've been insulted; it's crass to drag your girlfriend away for a very blatant fuck. But I pick number two because I know it'll only grate on him further. He sees me touching beautiful Leo; he sees his wife squirm with envy. And he might not be getting hard for her—I know his boy-shaped secret—but this kind of public show is humiliating.
I win.
"You could have been a little more subtle," Leo scolds me as I lead her out through the opulent lobby.
"I don't care about subtle." Unless it serves me in some fashion—which subtle rarely does. "I care about getting you alone." I catch her around the waist and pull her closer. Lower my voice so it vibrates against her flesh. "And naked. And spread out."
She wriggles in my grasp. "Aeron."
"I'm going to eat you up. And then I'm going to put you on your belly, and—"
"Sir? Your car is here," the bell boy interrupts.
I turn my gaze to him, his narrow shoulders and fresh young face and cow lick of gelled red hair, and then I run my tongue up crest of Leo's cheekbone. She makes a soft sound of protest, but doesn't exactly shove me off. Our boy doesn't know where to look.
The cab has a privacy screen which I yank across with a shrill creak as soon as I climb in after Leo. Then we're sinking back on the cool leather, Leo reaching for her seat belt and me pulling it away. I've been fighting my unusual proclivities all evening.
The engine buzzes beneath us. We pull out into flickering lights.
Sweetheart, I've been waiting. So patiently. Does she understand what an achievement that is for a creature like me? She wakens strange cravings that will not shut up.
"You smell like cake," I mumble somewhere into her collarbone—one of the few places her strapless dress leaves exposed. Her skin is addictive; how can something so soft be such a hard drug?
She giggles. The champagne has gone to her head, making her voice light and breathy. "And cake turns you on...?"
"You promised to take care of me."