My pulse drums a galloping rhythm, my breaths are shaky and uneven. When I stop trying to move, Rowan lays his chin on my shoulder and takes up a dessert spoon.

“Such a good girl you are, Blackbird,” he coos into my ear as he slides the spoon through the crème brûlée and brings it to my parted lips. “And good girls get rewards.”

The creamy dessert and tart berry topping land on my tongue with a burst of flavor. Rowan remains still as I savor the taste.

“Did you like it?” he asks.

“Y-yes.”

“Missing anything?”

“I…” Fuck, I don’t know. I can’t think clearly with his cock thick and hard in my pussy, my arousal slick at my entrance, my clit demanding relief. When I shake my head, he seems to understand that I don’t mean ‘no’, but that I can’t be sure.

“Close your eyes. Try again.”

I do as Rowan asks and close my eyes. The scents of sugar and fresh berries flood my nostrils, aromas I didn’t truly notice the last time. Rowan traces the edge of the spoon across my lips to paint my pink skin in flavor before I open for him.

“What do you taste?” Rowan whispers against the shell of my ear.

“Cream. Vanilla. Caramelized sugar. Strawberries and raspberries,” I reply, my eyes still closed. It feels like I’m floating, not outside of my body but in places within it that I’ve never seen or felt before. There’s another realm inside that I didn’t even know existed. It’s as though I’m disconnected from the rest of the world, yet more present in it than I’ve ever been. Every sensation becomes clearer in the absence of extraneous noise.

“What’s missing?” Rowan tries again.

“Nothing. But…” I shake my head. Rowan’s hand glides down my arm in reassurance, that this place and my words are safe with him. “But it’s not unique.”

“You’re right,” he replies. An indulgent kiss lingers on my neck as his cock twitches within me. I notice every motion he makes, from the way his lips lift from my skin to the rise and fall of his chest against my back. “It’s not unique. It’s like every other crème brûlée in the city. It needs something different. Something new.”

“Thorsten Harris probably would suggest—”

“Blackbird,” Rowan says, punctuating his warning with a bite to my earlobe. “Do not even think about finishing that sentence or there’ll be hell to pay.”

My eyes remain closed as I grin. “I like your version of hell.”

“You say that now. But I could stay in this tight little cunt of yours for hours, and I think you’d feel differently if I spent all that time not letting you come.” Rowan shifts his hips, just a hint of movement that ignites my desperation for more. “Now be my good little bird and name me the most random fruit you can think of. The first thing that springs to mind.”

I don’t even really think about it. I just speak. “Persimmon.”

There’s a beat of silence. Rowan relaxes behind me, as though the pent-up tension in his chest has spirited away.

“Yes. Persimmon. That’s an excellent idea, love.”

And then he slides out of me.

I open my eyes and turn around as he takes a step back, tucking his erection back into his briefs before he tugs his pants up. My breaths come in shallow pants as I take him in. There’s heat and desire in his eyes, but he keeps it banked. Not like me. I know my desperate need for more is written all over my face.

“I thought you said good girls get rewards,” I say, my voice low and husky.

A slow smile tips up the corner of Rowan’s lips where his scar brightens in a straight line through his skin. “You’re right. I did say that. Go out into the restaurant and sit on your table.”

“Which one is mine?”

“You’ll know.”

He tosses me a wink and starts to gather the unused ingredients onto the tray. I watch for a moment before he nods toward the door and tells me he’ll be there as soon as he’s done.

I head out into the dimly-lit space and toward the booths beneath the black wing mounted on the wall. When I glance between the front entrance and the sign for the emergency exit by the bathrooms and the door to the kitchen, it’s obvious which one I’d choose—the booth that sits just beneath the vertex of the spread wing.

When I slide onto the seat, there’s a line of text in a simple cursive script, branded into the surface of the wood. ‘Blackbird’s Booth,’ it says.

My finger traces each letter as I look out at the space and take in every detail from this vantage point. I’m still absorbing the warmth spreading through my veins when I hear the swoosh of the kitchen door.

“I thought I said for you to get ‘on’ the table,” Rowan says as he stalks in my direction. I glance from him to the windows lining the front of the restaurant and back again. Anticipation rushes through my veins on a flood of adrenaline.

“But—”

“On, Sloane. Now.”

Fire crawls beneath my skin as I gesture toward the front of the restaurant. Rowan stops next to the booth with a stern expression that states he’s clearly unwilling to entertain any protest I’m about to make, not that it will stop me from arguing. “I just saw a woman walk by with her groceries,” I say. “She does not want to see that. No one does.”

“Of course they do. And even if they didn’t, there’s an important detail that you might be missing: I don’t. Fucking. Care. So are you using your safe word?”

“No.”

Rowan’s hands press flat to the surface as he leans closer, pinning me with an unwavering stare. “Then get on the fucking table, Sloane.”

I climb onto the surface with my back facing the row of windows as heartbeats hum beneath my skin, keeping my eyes on him the whole time. When I’m settled, Rowan slides onto the padded bench until he’s directly in front of me. My gaze is trapped in his, our connection unbroken, neither of us moving. He seems to enjoy that I’m waiting for his instructions as much as I enjoy obeying them.

“Pull your dress up to your waist,” he says, his eyes dark and brimming with lust. I do as he says, but I take my time, dragging the hem across my skin. “Spread your legs wide.”

Rowan’s gaze stays riveted to my damp panties and the outline of my piercings beneath the fabric as I spread my thighs as wide as my hips will allow. He grasps my knees and prompts me back a little closer to the center of the table.

“Remember what I told you?” he asks, not taking his eyes from the apex of my thighs.

I nod. “That you were going to devour me on a table in the restaurant.”

“Damn straight, Blackbird. And this is a meal I’ve been fucking dying for.”

Rowan stretches my panties to one side, lowers his head, and feasts.

He wasn’t lying. There could be people walking by. They could be staring in the window. They could be at the table next to us and he doesn’t fucking care. He ravages my pussy like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. He lavishes every piercing with attention and sucks on my clit. He plunges his tongue into my cunt and moans. He tightens his fingers on my thighs in a bruising grip that only ratchets up my desire.

And if anyone is watching, I don’t care either.

I grasp Rowan’s hair in a tight fist and hold him against me to grind my pussy into his face. I’m rewarded with a throaty growl and two fingers plunged into my cunt, the immediate rhythm and his expert touch pushing me closer to coming undone. My ass squeaks against the wood as he surges forward and consumes me, body and soul.

I come apart with a cry of Rowan’s name, soaking his fingers, coating his face. And he leaves me no time to recover from the intense orgasm before he drags my panties down my legs and tosses them to the floor. The moment they’re gone, he’s tugging his pants and briefs down and sliding into me.

“Fuck, Sloane,” he grits out with the first full thrust. I can already tell it won’t be long before I’m coming apart for a second time. “I’ve missed you so fucking much. It’s been hell here without you.”