Table For One

Kira's laughing, phone balanced on her shoulder, trading dinner ideas with Dante when the damn thing slips. She fishes under the couch blind, still flirting, still wired like she might pull this off—until the frame clamps her waist and she’s sealed in. Nothing budges. Dante’s still talking, cheerful and clueless, three minutes out. He pushes the door, catches the picture: ass up, neon panties biting a crease down the cleft, sneakers kicking air. He smirks despite himself, kneels, palms her hips—solid, warm, edging lower than rescue protocol. Each tug rocks her forward; each rock presses fabric tighter, damp heat telegraphing straight through cotton. Her breath hitches over the speaker. He swaps one tug for a slow squeeze, thumb dipping under the elastic, testing give. She pushes back instead of pulling away. The phone crackles: “Kira?” He hangs it up, thumb tracing the soaked seam, voice low. “Guess we’re staying in.” She answers with a roll of her hips, needy and shameless, and the wedge between couch and floor becomes the first thing they ignore that night.