A Night Away 5

A romantic getaway. She packed light. Very light.

What begins as a simple trip to Paris becomes something else entirely -- a night of teasing, tension, and power shifting hands.

This is a slow-burn story about confidence, surrender, and what happens when the person you think you know surprises you... in public.

---

The city was alive outside, humming with evening light and the early clatter of restaurants warming up. But in the lift of the hotel, everything was quiet -- except for the pulse in his throat.

She stood next to him, close but not touching, the scent of her skin just barely layered under the perfume she'd dabbed at her neck. Her dress -- black again -- was shorter than what she normally wore, scandalously so, skimming the very tops of her thighs. It was fitted at the waist and loose at the hips, the fabric soft enough to catch the movement of her body with every step. Thin straps framed her bare shoulders, holding up a neckline that dipped low across her chest in a fluid, unashamed sweep.

The dress alone would normally have set his heart racing--but since she'd whispered her little secret just before leaving their room, he'd barely remembered how to breathe.

She had picked up the dress after they arrived, from a boutique they'd passed on the walk to the hotel. Although she'd packed for an intimate weekend, this dress -- short, slinky, far bolder than her usual wardrobe -- had caught her eye and sent her imagination racing.

She'd often caught him peeking: when she stepped out of the shower, slipped off a jumper, bent to fetch something from the floor. At first, it had surprised her -- maybe even embarrassed her. But lately, the hunger in his eyes had started to turn her on. She didn't usually like attention, and definitely didn't seek it. But the idea that he couldn't help but look -- that he admired her that way -- had started to unlock something.

It thrilled her.

Wearing this dress tonight wasn't just about fashion. It was about stepping into a role she didn't normally allow herself. Playing the part of the fantasy -- his fantasy -- and finding she liked it. A lot.

To him, it didn't feel like something she would wear at home. Back there, she was measured -- precise, even in flirtation. But tonight, in a city that she used to call home, she wore a skin that was new to him. This dress wasn't just an outfit. It was a persona. A masquerade. A lens. And the strangest thing was how naturally it fit her, like she'd always been this woman beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment -- and place -- to step out.

He watched her in profile, stunned. In awe. This wasn't just about desire. It was reverence. The kind of hush that fell over people in churches or galleries -- the kind of stillness that came when you knew you were in the presence of something rare.

She hadn't said much, but her presence said everything.

This city was new to him. He hadn't travelled much in the past, although he had always wanted to. Time, place, companion, there had always been something missing before, but she had cleared his mind of doubt. He had organised this surprise trip for them both, partly as a celebration, and partly just because he wanted her to himself, away from their real lives. Maybe even away from the version of him at home. She made him feel liberated, and he wanted to shake off the old coat of himself. He'd gone shopping, alone and in person, something he would never normally do. He had done his research and purchased himself a dark 2 piece suit with a well fitting shirt and some matching leather shoes, as well as some new underwear. He had remembered, when she started to stay over regularly, how she had laughed at holes in his underwear that he hadn't even noticed.

He had felt prepared for the weekend before now. Entering her old domain with her, it had been a bold choice of destination. But he felt elevated by the affection she showed him, confident in himself. Until, that is, he had seen that dress on her as she stepped out of the fitting room.

Blindsided by her stunning figure, he could barely put together a basic compliment. Fortunately, she took his tongue tied tendencies the right way.

Back at the hotel, while getting ready for their evening out, an idea had come to her -- and she hoped he'd like it. She stepped in front of the mirror, checking her reflection... then caught his in the background. Watching. As always.

She cleared her throat subtly and took a quiet, nervous breath. Then, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, she bent at the waist to adjust the bows on her heels -- legs straight, posture deliberate. She didn't need to look to know he was staring.

His eyes widened slightly, fixed on the curve of her hips as she carefully fumbled with the straps.

She looked up and caught his gaze in the mirror.

Wicked smile. One raised brow.

"Oops," she said, all faux innocence. "Looks like I forgot to pack any underwear..."

She turned slowly, smoothing the dress over her thighs as she faced him fully.

"Think we'll survive?"

He didn't answer right away.

He just stared.

Not slack-jawed, not cartoonish -- but stunned in the truest, deepest sense. Like something had just shifted. Like he knew, in that moment, that the evening was no longer entirely his.

It was hers.

He swallowed, his brain catching up with his body, then let out a soft, shaky laugh.

"Oh," he said, finally. "I'm fucked."

She stood up straight again, not breaking eye contact. She was trying incredibly hard not to giggle with satisfaction at herself.

"Yes," she said lightly. "You will be."

She paused in front of him, lifted herself onto her toes and kissed him -- deep, deliberate, but far too brief to satisfy. Then she pulled back, her lips just brushing his as she whispered, "But until then..."

A beat.

"...you'll just have to see what happens."

She reached up and pinched his cheek with faux patronising sympathy, like he was a wide-eyed little boy who had no idea what was about to hit him. Her eyes sparkled with smug pride. This was her moment -- her game, her rules, and he was absolutely under her spell.

Inside her own mind, a standing ovation erupted. She was a vixen, a queen, a sex goddess. Nothing could stop her.

Then she turned... and caught the corner of her heel on the edge of the rug.

It was only a stumble -- barely more than a falter in her step -- but enough to break the perfect choreography. Her hand flew to the wall to catch herself.

She winced.

He didn't notice.

He was still standing exactly where she'd left him, a little dazed, jaw slack, eyes glazed with reverence and lust. The stumble hadn't broken the spell. If anything, it added to it -- because now she knew: she didn't need to be perfect to undo him.

The applause returned. Louder this time.

Now, in the private hush of the lift, with only the hum of the machinery rising beneath them, he felt like a man waiting for something inevitable. It reminded him of the moment just before takeoff -- when the plane begins to taxi and there's no turning back. He hated flying. She'd teased him about it on the way here. But this feeling -- that quiet, electric dread in his chest -- wasn't fear, not exactly. It was anticipation. And still, he was nervous. Not of her body, but of her. This woman she had become. Confident. In control. Unshaken by this new city -- while he was still catching up.

Part of him wanted to hit the button, send the lift back up, strip her down and take her to bed while he still had her to himself. But another part -- the deeper part -- couldn't wait to see what happened when she stepped out into the night. Who she would become. What she would do.

Now, in the small metal box of the lift, she didn't say a word. But when the floor lurched beneath them, her body swayed just slightly into his, and she didn't move away. His hand flexed at his side. She noticed.

"You alright?" she asked, a wicked gleam in her eye. "You've gone a bit quiet."

He cleared his throat, looking ahead, trying to count down the floors. "Fine. Hungry."

She smiled -- knowing. "Me too."

They arrived at the restaurant and were led to the bar while their table was prepared. Dim lighting, candles, low music -- the kind of place you booked when you wanted to be heard only by each other. They sat in opulent armchairs across from each other, with a low coffee table between them. She held a glass of wine in her hand, and an expression on her face like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

But every now and then, she shifted in her seat just enough to remind him -- nothing was beneath that dress. He caught the faintest flash of thigh as the fabric slid, quickly hidden again with a casual movement. He clenched his jaw.

She looked... untouched by nerves. Effortless. Like this version of herself had existed all along, just waiting for the right setting to arrive. He wasn't used to being the quiet one, but here he was -- opposite a woman who looked like a secret Paris kept just for him.

"I think I like this place," she said, looking around. "Nice lighting. Subtle. Intimate."

He raised an eyebrow. "You did pick it."

"Did I?" she asked. "I don't remember."

Then she took a slow sip of wine and shifted in her seat, uncrossing her legs with deliberate grace. The hem of her dress slipped higher as she moved -- not enough to be indecent, but enough to make him forget how to breathe. Her eyes never left his.

He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself with one hand on the chairs arm, and cast a glance around the room -- checking, just for a moment, if anyone else had seen how brazen she was being.

"Tell me what you're doing," he said.

"I'm enjoying my drink," she replied, sweetly. "Aren't you?"

He looked at her -- really looked -- and she could see it in his face: the need building, the tension tight at the corners of his mouth. There was still that flicker of disbelief in his eyes, like he couldn't quite reconcile the woman before him with the one he thought he knew. Like he was watching her become someone new -- and being seduced by it.

His voice lowered. "You're driving me insane."

She smiled, leaning in. "Good."

Sat at their dining table in the corner of the restaurant, their food had arrived. He was telling her about the time he spent in Barcelona, and she could see he was relaxing a little. It was time to increase the tension.

She tilted her head, pretending to glance toward the window, then let her napkin flutter to the floor between the table and the wall.

"Oh, clumsy," she said softly, and before he could react, she was already sliding off her chair.

He moved to lean down, instinctively trying to help -- but she was already on her hands and knees, reaching for the napkin with exaggerated slowness. She knew exactly how the hem of her dress was climbing over her curves, how exposed she was in that moment. He was dumbstruck.

She winked at him -- then slid beneath the table, moving with the fluid, confident motion of a cat prowling its own backyard.

The long white tablecloth hung low enough to hide everything, the candlelight above still flickering calmly as if nothing at all had changed. He sat frozen, heart pounding in his ears, his hands flat against his thighs.

Then he felt it.

Her fingers, feather-light, sliding along the inside of his leg. Up. Higher. She moved slowly, as if she had all the time in the world -- as if she weren't currently kneeling beneath a restaurant table with waiters walking quietly between courses.

When her fingers reached his fly, he stopped breathing. She didn't rush. She just traced the fabric with lazy curiosity, until his length was unmistakably hard beneath it.

She unzipped him with careful precision, the slow metallic sound nearly lost under the clink of cutlery at nearby tables.

His hands clenched at his sides.

She freed him -- gently, reverently -- and her warm breath washed over the skin of his thigh.

He bit his lower lip.

Then her mouth -- soft, wet, and maddeningly slow -- wrapped around the head of him.

His hips twitched instinctively, and he had to grab the edge of the table, pretending to adjust his knife.

Her tongue moved in slow, teasing circles. She wasn't trying to rush him. She wasn't trying to finish him. She was reminding him exactly who was in charge tonight.

Every so often, she paused, just long enough to let him feel the absence of her, then returned with a little more pressure, a little more intent. The heat of her mouth, the danger of discovery, the absolute impossibility of the moment -- it overwhelmed him.

A soft groan escaped his throat. He turned it into a cough.

A waiter approached.

Panic shot through him. He tried to summon a smile -- something to say, I'm fine, just enjoying my meal -- but he didn't speak French. He raised his hands briefly, palms up, hoping that would be enough.

It wasn't.

The man was relentless, already reaching for the water jug.

Beneath the table, her tongue found a sensitive spot, and his hand clenched into a fist. The smile slipped from his face, replaced by another quiet groan, half-formed and half-hidden. She didn't realise they had company.

The waiter began to pour -- slowly. So slowly it barely qualified as a pour. A delicate stream of water flowed into the glass, controlled, measured. He tried to focus on that -- to anchor himself in it. But his body was wrapped in pleasure, and she had changed her technique: fuller now, her mouth moving with more intent, more rhythm. He squirmed in his seat.

The waiter glanced at him.

The jug was almost empty. There were just two ice cubes left, clinking softly against the glass as the angle tipped. They refused to pour. The man took his time. This was a five-star restaurant. The service was immaculate. They weren't in a rush.

The waiter adjusted the jug with excruciating care, coaxing the ice cubes to the rim. They inched closer, as if they were on the same schedule -- sliding along the inner curve toward the inevitable. Sweat beaded at his temple.

He was getting closer -- dangerously so. The pressure built in perfect time with the ice. He had to stop this. He had to do something.

"Thank you! Thank you," he said suddenly -- a little too loud -- reaching forward and tipping the jug sharply. The ice dropped with a splash.

Beneath the table, she startled, bumping her head on the underside. The whole table jolted.

The waiter stared at him.

Then at the empty chair.

Then back at him.

But he said nothing -- just gave a professional, almost imperceivable nod, and moved on to the next table.

She slid back into her seat with surprising poise, brushing her dress smooth with one hand and reaching for her wine with the other.

"Took longer than I thought to find that napkin," she said with a smile, licking her lips -- just for his benefit. "Also, I think I might have concussion."

He stared at her, lips parted, his chest rising and falling like he'd just sprinted through a dream. His glass remained untouched.

She took a long sip of wine, then glanced sideways at him with maddening calm.

"Oh.." she said with mock concern. "Is your food ok? You've barely touched it."

She disappeared toward the bathroom while he paid the bill, her dress swaying gently with every step. He tried to focus on tapping his card, on thanking the server, but his mind wouldn't settle. It circled back to what she had done: the revealing dress, the confident flashes of secret nakedness, the feel of her mouth around him, hidden by linen and candlelight. The sheer audacity of it all, the fact that almost no one noticed, still burned in his mind.

He hadn't planned to follow her. For a moment, he stood there, waiting quietly for her return. But the spell didn't hold. As the waiter disappeared and he found himself alone, the thought of her -- flushed and triumphant in that bathroom -- planted itself deep and began to pulse. She hadn't just aroused him; she'd ignited something reckless.

While she had transformed into this devastating force of confidence, he realized he still had agency. He could meet her there. Match her. Surprise her.

His eyes flicked to the bathroom corridor. He walked toward it with a pulse in his ears, no plan beyond instinct. He didn't think; he felt. A decision had already been made somewhere deeper than thought, and now his body simply followed.

The door to the women's bathroom swung inward with a creak. No one inside -- just the faint hum of a cleaner's air freshener and the distant city noise filtering through a cracked window.

He stepped quietly in.

From one of the stalls: the rustle of fabric, the click of her handbag, the quiet shifting sound of her adjusting her dress. He didn't speak. He simply walked to her door, softly knocked, and let the toe of his shoe rest just under it.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, her soft, amused laugh.

She opened the stall.

He stepped in, and she closed the door behind him.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Her eyes wide, her breath a little quick, lips still tinted from her wine. And then his hands were around her -- her back, her hips, her hair -- kissing her with all the hunger he'd held back all night.

She let him. Kissed him back just as fiercely. Pressed against the wall of the stall, her body already responding, already arching into him.

He grabbed her hips and lifted her onto the narrow shelf behind the cistern. She let out a quiet laugh, half surprise, half delight at the force of him -- at the way he'd lost control because of her. It thrilled her. She knew she had teased him all night, and he deserved this, but she was aching for him too. The fact that he had been so transfixed with her had been turning her on so much, it took all her self-discipline not to beg him to take her back to the hotel room.

He kissed her again, slower now, his hands trailing down to her thighs. Her short dress had already ridden up to an indecent height, exposing her entirely to him. She watched him through parted lips, unsure of his next move, and aching for it.

He saw the hunger in her eyes and smiled -- slowed down. Exerted a little control of his own.

He kissed her neck with aching precision, lingered there, then moved lower to her shoulder. One strap slipped down, revealing the upper swell of her breast. He cupped her gently, brushing her nipple with his thumb -- and felt her whole body shiver.

His tongue followed. Slow, circling. He took her into his mouth, teasing, tasting, listening to the way she caught her breath and pressed into him.

One hand was on her shoulder, steadying her. The other slipped between her legs -- and there, he found her.

She didn't realise she was making sounds until she heard herself begging.

He smiled.

And sank lower.

He hooked her thigh over his shoulder and leaned in.

His mouth found her with quiet reverence. No hesitation now. His tongue moved with slow pressure, deliberate, tracing her with care and hunger. She gasped, her hands pressing to either side of the stall. He glanced up once -- saw her eyes flutter closed, her mouth open, chest rising with each ragged breath.

Making circles around her lips, her wetness coated his mouth quickly. He adored the taste of her. He could feel the tension in her, the longing for him to make contact with that sweet spot. He traced slowly down, teasing around her entrance, before deftly flicking his tongue upward, pointed, finally landing on her clit.

She was trying to stay quiet.

Trying so hard, whilst wanting to scream out in pleasure.

Then -- the outer door creaked open.

Footsteps. Another woman entered the bathroom.

Her eyes snapped open, and she looked down at him in panic.

But he didn't stop.

If anything, he intensified. Revenge for her earlier teasing whilst the waiter poured his water at almost Stalactite pace.