Dinner

His left hand rests on my trembling thigh under the table, and my heart races. He gives a calm smile to the waiter, reeling off his order and adding “She’ll have the butterfly chicken.” as he grips my thigh with a smirk. 

I hate when he’s like this, but I crave it. I need him, but he’s as cool as a summer breeze. 

His fingers snake further up my thigh, and my breath hitches as I writhe in my seat, my body aching for him as he sips his wine with his other hand, and a smug smile. 

There are butterflies and cyclones in my stomach as I feel him tapping a slow, sensual rhythm on my skin, the song of longing and anticipation, only broken as the waiter places our plates on the table with a smile I cannot return, for I hunger for something no restaurant can provide.