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picture of innocence.  I turned as the waiter approached our table with several of the entrées Alexander had ordered.  The waiter took the chilling champagne from its ice bucket and topped up our glasses.   “How is everything, Monsieur Wolfe?” he asked, in perfect English.
    “Everything is perfect.  Absolutely perfect.  Thank you.”
    My body didn’t seem to care that Alexander was too big.  That in this position, his possession was both nearly uncomfortable and practically divine.  That we were having sex in a crowded restaurant while holding a conversation with an attentive waiter .  I was rippling around him, wetly combusting, quivering on the very verge of orgasm.  If Alexander had touched me with his fingers, I would have come right then and there.  But he didn’t.  He held my glass of champagne to my lips and I took a sip of the bubbling liquid.  The waiter left us to it.
    Alexander held me in the locked gravity of his gaze.  He was beautiful, all that virile, darkhorse splendor rousing me even further.  I wished I could straddle him and ride him into the sunset like a slowride rodeo hero.  I wanted to bite him and suck on any part of him.  It took all the self-control I had but, instead, I kissed him very lightly, while squeezing him in tiny, rhythmic pulls with my clenching core.
    There was something so wildly carnal about the way we were fully clothed except the most intimate parts of our bodies, which were lusciously connected, joined in a secret, fluttering communion.
    I couldn’t help it.  I had to move.  I was so close.  Too close.  Too close to be cautious or restrained.  But when I lifted myself up in a careful attempt to gain some of that slippery friction that might give me release, he clamped his hand tighter at my hip, holding me in place.  “No,” he said with authoritative bite that stoked my lust to fever pitch.
    “Alexander,” I whispered so quietly he was watching my mouth with a glazed, lust-drowsed expression, as though reading my lips.  “It’s so good.  You’re so beautiful.  I want to pulse around you as you look into my eyes.  Right now.  I want you to come so hard it blows your mind.  Right here at the table.”
    “Ah, fuck,” he groaned quietly.  Out of the corner of his eye, something caught his attention.  “Ah, fuck, ” he said again.  “He’s here.  It’s Etienne.  I just saw him walk past the window.
    Oh, God.
    Alexander gently lifted me off him, adjusting himself and his clothing quickly as I slid back to the seat next to him.  I felt ragged, bereft, and so intensely aroused I thought I might do something crazy.  Like pin him down or drag him back to the hotel, bigshot editor-in-chief be damned.
    Etienne appeared at the table, flanked by two young, pretty, exceptionally French-looking women.  They had short boyish haircuts and wore matching skimpy outfits of very-short shorts, high heels, sequined tops and whimsical scarves, like they’d dressed for the evening together, coordinating their looks.  Etienne himself was tall and handsome in a familyman kind of way.  I guessed him to be around thirty-five.  His hair was longish and stylishly unkempt and he wore John Lennon eyeglasses and one of those scarves you usually associate with the Middle East, wrapped bulkily around his neck.  He gave the first impression of being creative and eccentric, but also keenly intelligent.
    Introductions were made as Etienne sat next to Alexander and the two young women sat next to me.  I hoped that we weren’t showing any outward signs of our very-recent activities.  Alexander’s lap was partially covered by the table cloth and my skirt was appropriately rearranged.  But the throbbing, juicy memory of his big, thick cock inside me made me feel half-mad with desire and ready for anything.
    “This is Monique Junot,” Etienne said.  “She writes a column for the magazine, and she runs her own business.  And our mutual friend Mia