You want to know how you won me over? It wasn't the charming stories or the way you looked at me across the table. It was that moment under the tablecloth when your hand landed on my knee.

God, I was trying so hard to listen to you, to be normal, but my entire world narrowed to that one point of contact. When you started moving it up my thigh, so slow and deliberate, I thought I was going to combust right there in that restaurant. My brain short-circuited. I could feel myself getting wet, a desperate, immediate throb starting between my legs, and all I could think was, "Here. Now. Please."

The worst part was how unaffected you seemed. You kept talking about fucking sourdough while your fingers were tracing circles on my inner thigh, getting closer and closer to where I was aching for you. I was completely at your mercy, trying to form coherent sentences while you were silently claiming me.

When you leaned in and whispered "Careful, don't want to cause a scene," I almost lost it. That's when I knew. It wasn't just a turn-on. It was a confession. You knew exactly what you were doing to me, and the control you had in that moment—making me fall apart with just a touch while no one else knew—that's what sealed my fate. You didn't just win me over. You owned me before we even got to dessert.