I gaze across the restaurant table at him and know I should be a good girl. Should behave. But every fibre of me craves to crawl up, sweep away the candles, wine glasses and luxurious napkins, grab his tie and kiss him. I ache to straddle his lap, free his cock and ride myself to oblivion on his colossal prick, other customers be damned.

It's a constant need inside. A throb that I wish would go away. But it consumes every thought. Every breath. Every drop of blood magnetised with need that's forced through my thudding heart beneath the crimson strappy dress.

Desire burns and I fight for control. My panties would have caught the drips if I'd been wearing any. I squeeze my thighs together instead, smearing juices leaking from the inferno of my bare slit.

Paul deserves better. My best. He may be all chiselled looks and doe eyes at the prospect of spending a romantic Valentine's meal with his new belle, but I know behind that veneer lies a darkness that excites me. Even after just three weeks, I'm pretty sure he's the one.

But doubt nags. I thought the same about the previous five, no, six. Or ten. But he's different. Worships me, yet isn't intimidated. Knows when to take control; to play the strong hand. And fuck, does he have a strong hand. Swear my ass is still rosy pink, and that was two days ago. Could he be my happily ever after? Or would I screw it up like always?

I wriggle. Clamp my thighs again as I leak at wild thoughts of tasting him, fucking him, overwhelming him. I shut my eyes. Inhale. Out. In. Out. I’m a good girl. A good girl.

Opening my eyes, the carefully tailored ambience filters through my needy fog. Loops of fairy lights twinkle, reflected in the tableware. Inoffensive piano music floats between the clack of cutlery and polite, muted conversation carrying whispered promises of what's to come. Romance is everywhere, though given the lack of decent places to eat in WestLake, it's hardly surprising.

I was fortunate to have secured a table. Fucking the owner had helped. Swarthy of Italian descent, he knew precisely where to insert his hard salsiccia for maximum effect as I clawed and bit at his skin, his portly wife upstairs oblivious. Surprised she didn't hear our mutual climax, but burying my face in his neck as he hammered me against the dessert cabinet kept a lid on my gasps. He pulsed, erratic breaths hot in my ear as I took every drop.

Paul's waving brings me from my reverie. I stare. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said I think that's Lannie over there." He waves again to attract his attention.

I glance over. Fuck. Hunkering down in my seat a fraction, I hiss. "Don't make a scene, Paul.”

"Why not? You know Sam and Lannie."

The guy eventually looks our way and smiles. Excuses himself. Approaches.

Double fuck. I lift the menu in front of my face and study it. Italian tossed salad. Cannelloni Florentine. Four-cheese ravioli. Shrimp fra diavolo.

"Hi, Paul. Sadie."

I lower the menu. "Oh hi. Fancy seeing you here."

"Where else on this night in tinytown than with…" his gaze levels on mine, "those you love, am I right?"

Paul beams. "Right."

Lannie leans in, partially in a conspiratorial gesture but I expect mostly to peek down my low-cut dress better. "The linguine di mare is to die for."

He straightens. Paul nods. "So many tempting things on the menu."

Lannie never takes his eyes off me. "Quite."

There's a pause large enough to park the Bismarck in. I break it. "Shouldn't you be, uhh," I indicate Sam, who's drawing a circle around the rim of her wine glass with a fingertip.

"Yeah." He begins to turn, then pauses. "You said you'd call."

I try to control my fluster. "Sorry. Busy."

He smiles. "I understand. Well, you know where I am."

"Yes. Just over there. With Sam."

His smile tightens. "Of course. Enjoy."

He returns. Paul raises his eyebrows and I squirm. "We were... discussing some additional tuition. French vocabulary for his forthcoming trip."

Baise-moi avec ta langue, Lannie! Baise-moi!

His tongue was spectacularly talented. Sam was a lucky bitch in that regard, but Lannie didn't do it for me on an emotional level. Racks of comics and action figures on shelves creeped me out.

He'd served a need, though, when the hunger built to breaking point. He was in the right place at the right time and I'd taken him. Spoiled him. Enough that sex with Sam would forever seem bland in comparison to me sandwiched between his invading cock and the hotel shower tiles.

I'd wrapped my arms around his upper torso and rocked my hips in time to his thrusts, clutching his head to my tits. His playful bites turned harder at my insistence, hissing over the spray as my orgasm thundered on its approach and ripped through me, amplified at each red pockmark on my chest.

Afterwards, he'd selflessly carried me to the bed, both of us still dripping wet, threw me onto my back and devoured his spunk from my soaked hole until I writhed and clutched at the sheets, arching into his mouth in rapturous appreciation.

When I'd calmed and shared his spunk in a messy kiss, I returned the favour. Rolled him onto his back and sucked him to hardness again, before slithering up to sink onto his shaft. Rode him hard, damp chestnut locks brushing his fingertips as he squeezed my breasts and pinched my sensitive nipples. When he came, it triggered mine, pulsing around his spasming girth as I groaned and buried my face in his neck. I was such a bad girl that night.

I have to keep myself in check.

Sliding my gaze to Paul's, I flash him a disarming smile and try to control the urge to rip my dress off and fuck him senseless on the table. "What are you going for?"

He casts his attention to the menu. "Cannelloni I think. You?"

"Probably the linguine that Lannie mentioned."

"Good call. Shall we get some red to go with it?"

"Sure."

I study his lips. The top one thin, the bottom full. I ache to kiss them. I need him to know. As a prelude, I lean across the table, lifting out of my seat a fraction and lace my fingers with his as our mouths meet. Desire surges. Rages. Drips. I have to force myself to break the kiss, sitting back in my seat, staring across the table at him. It's his turn to squirm and I can picture what's rising beneath the table surface in his trousers.

So intent on eyeing him, I don't notice the waiter approaching until he politely coughs alongside us.

I look up and double take. Ricardo?

Recognition flickers and his eyes widen. I shake my head fractionally. A warning. He takes notice. "Something to… to drink this evening?"

Paul orders the wine and I watch Ricardo scurry off to fetch it. On his return, he follows tradition. Pops the cork, pours and lets me sample the first mouthful. The tannin swirls and I nod.

He fills my glass that I hold up. The back of his hand holding the bottle brushes mine and the touch sparks the memory of him sweeping the hair from my cheeks and kissing me, my ass pressed to the metal restaurant kitchen work surface.

As he cradled my face, need skyrocketed. I scrabbled at his belt. Unbuckled it and yanked the buttons apart. Snaking my hand into his boxers, I freed his meat, hot and heavy in my grip. Jacked him to hardness, crouching to kiss and nibble the shaft until I tasted sweet pre-come beneath the velvet chamois skin that I rhythmically peeled from his bulbous glans. I gazed up at him, wide-eyed desire eclipsing rational thought, parted my lips and engulfed his length.

I'll never forget the way he breathed; snarled when I drew back and plunged my mouth to the base of his prick. His hand curled around my skull, fingers knotting my hair as he tugged me in, filling me until I coughed and yanked free.

I was a dripping mess by the time he hauled me to my feet, big hands searching beneath my chequered micro skirt. He cupped my ass and squeezed. Found the elastic and peeled downward, swept the pans and crockery aside, picked me up and planted me on the cold worktop.

With my panties looped around the top of my ankle boots, he spread my thighs, stepped in and impaled me on his rod. Damn near took my breath away. I hooked my arms around his neck and leaned back as he lowered his mouth to my tits and bit them through the cream blouse.

Wet circles of saliva formed around the hidden caps that rose to meet his teeth. I gasped as he took me, fucking me hard, firm hands on my ass cheeks hauling me against his hips time and again. He rammed inside me, uncountable inches buried in my sopping snatch as his mouth danced. My body quivered, orgasm circling, rising, then taking over. I hauled myself up, begged him to fill me and shook as he lost control. Our hips ground together and he pulsed inside me as I buried my wails in his neck. Thank fuck it was after hours.

“Are you ready to order?”

I snap my attention up, flushed. “Uhh,” I raise my eyebrows at Paul, who nods. “Umm, yes.”

We order. Then begin the whole getting-to-know-you routine. It seems odd at first because we’d already fucked—a lot—but know comparatively little else. He works in IT, and his geek factor is a huge draw, without it crossing into creepy doll territory like Lannie. I’m deliberately vague about my profession. Human Resources, I tell him, which isn’t an outright lie.

With each morsel of information he reveals, my hunger for him rises. It's certainly not just for food. The starter is delicious and we flirt a little between mouthfuls. I tell him I don't have any underwear on and his pupils dilate. I lick my lips. Can practically picture the blood thundering through him, thickening his manhood, all for me.

I break eye contact. Glance around the room at the other guests. Freeze. Diagonally across from us is that guy from the grocery store. Chuck. He flashes me a glance and grins.

My mouth opens a fraction recalling the way his shaft felt inside me as I tore at his shirt, scattering produce left and right in the store aisles.

By now he'd know that I also fucked the woman he was with. Her ass was delicious. Presented to me as she stretched face down on their bed and I kissed her peach, slithered my mouth between her thighs and devoured her soaking slit.

She shook and quivered as I wrenched the orgasm from her. Drowned in her divine essence. Sharing the juice-laden kiss afterwards was something special as we moaned into mouths, and swirled tongues. When she snaked her fingers between my soaked thighs and thumbed my clit with perfectly placed precision, all I could do was stifle my cries against her tender skin to avoid alerting Chuck in the shop below.

The recollection elevates my thirst. I dart my eyes from them. Fuxake. A few tables away sit Miles and Anna. Next to them, Delores and Wes, both a whirlwind of fucking and clawing and desperate bites in recent memory.

The more I recall of the rampant carnality, the more their eyes seem to focus on me. Gravitate. Stare. Like I’m exuding some pheromone that draws them to all bore into my soul. Tom. Nancy. Devon. Joseph. Yen. Maria.

Fuck.

The restaurant shrinks and my pulse races, heat and wetness from my pussy gnawing at every strand of resolve I desperately clutch. My leg jiggles beneath the table and I grip my thigh to no avail. All the motion does is excite my agitated pussy lips further. Need overtakes reason and the lid on the pressure inside pops.

Scraping my chair back from the table, I stand. A hundred pairs of eyes swivel my way at the commotion as I lean over the table to Paul and whisper, "Two minutes. Follow me."

I breeze to the back of the restaurant not daring to glance over my shoulder in case they all follow. Crash into the ladies' room and grip the basin mount, staring into the mirror. I'm a flustered mess. Nipples clear. Need worn like a rapper's bling.

Shaking, I thrust a hand under the dress. Plunge a pair of digits inside my soaked hole and draw out to circle my clit. Lidded hell surfaces, mouth dropping open, the good girl tumbling into the abyss beneath my feet twitching in the heels.

I lose myself in the growing heat, crushing my nub against palm as fingers delve into my furrow, fuelling the rampant desire that threatens to consume me.

Snapping my focus at the knock, I launch to the door and yank it open. Grab Paul from the other side and haul him in. As the door swings shut I'm already unfurling his belt, his ass perched on the basin edge. He scrabbles outward for purchase, setting off the hand dryer. I free his cock, stroke it, and hike my dress, stepping in and guiding him into my clutching cunt.

Despite the suddenness and awkward angles, it only takes a moment for him to lose all sense of decency. The Paul I crave takes over, grabbing at my ass, mauling my tits, nipping my flesh as I bounce on his rod, one heel on the floor, the other scuffing the basin ledge.

I claw at his back, snarl and ride him. My clit crushes between our hips with every thrust and my climax simmers, boils, surfaces. His shaft ploughs deeper and I gasp, overwhelmed. Paranoia conjures images of the townsfolk filing from their seats and lining up the other side of the bathroom door. Awaiting their turn to bask in my downfall.

Deep down I know I should be better. Fight it. My nails dig in as I crest. He stiffens and groans, grip tightening on my ass and he begins to jet inside me. His head tips back amid a deep moan that resonates our bodies.

Over his shoulder in the mirror there's a fleeting glimpse of the good girl behind my ravenous thirst. She begs me not to do it. Pleads for me not to be so fucking selfish. To do the right thing, for his sake.

We lock eyes and I fall, pussy pulsing as the orgasm tears into the fabric of my soul, my curse.

I let out a scream, bare my fangs and feast, destroying yet another shot at happiness in my unquenchable, immortal hunger.