🔥 The Reservation 🔥

A Sugar, Skates & Second Chances Bonus Chapter
by Jace Wilder

🔥 TOO HOT FOR AMAZON 🔥

Set between Chapter 10 and Chapter 11. The Per Se dinner — the first date Alexander Volk planned three weeks before he admitted he wanted one. ~5,000 words. Explicit MM. Praise kink, restraint, edging, D/s dynamics reimagined as equals. Fully consensual, safewords established.

The suit was new.

Not Alex’s suit — mine. He’d had another one made, because apparently the man communicated affection through tailoring the way normal people communicated it through words. This one was midnight blue, three-piece, with a texture so fine it felt like touching still water. The shirt was white. No tie — “the restaurant is upscale, not a funeral,” Alex had said, which was as close as Alexander Volk got to a joke about fashion.

I stood in the penthouse bathroom and looked at myself and didn’t recognize the man in the mirror. Not because I looked different — I’d always known I cleaned up well, it was one of the few things I’d never been insecure about. Because I looked happy. And the happiness was visible in a way it never had been before: in the set of my shoulders, the looseness of my jaw, the way my eyes weren’t scanning for exits.

The chain sat at the base of my throat, just visible above the open collar. I thought about tucking it in. Left it out.

Alex appeared in the doorway behind me. Black suit, charcoal shirt, the silver in his hair catching the bathroom light. He looked like a weapon someone had dressed up for a gallery opening.

“Ready?” he asked.

“You made a reservation three weeks ago and didn’t tell me.”

“I was waiting for the optimal moment.”

“The optimal moment was apparently after I begged you for a dinner date during an argument.”

“I prefer to think of it as strategic convergence.” His eyes traveled down my back, lingered on my ass in the new trousers, and returned to the mirror where our reflections stood side by side — him dark and precise, me broader and slightly untamed despite the bespoke fabric. “You look extraordinary.”

“You said I looked ‘appropriate’ last time.”

“I’ve recalibrated my vocabulary.” He stepped forward. His hand settled on my lower back, warm through the layers. “Extraordinary. Don’t make me say it again.”

“I’m going to make you say it at least four more times tonight.”

“I know. That’s part of why I made the reservation.”

Per Se was in the Time Warner Center. Fourth floor. The kind of restaurant that didn’t need a sign because anyone who needed a sign wasn’t supposed to be there. The maître d’ greeted Alex by name — not the pseudonym he usually booked under but his actual name, which meant he’d called ahead to adjust the reservation. To be known. To bring me here as himself, not as a brand or a cover story.

He told me about Brighton Beach. About his mother — Yelena, a seamstress, the woman who worked three jobs and still found time to cook elaborate Russian dinners on Sundays. About the apartment with the peeling wallpaper and the radiator that clanged all night. About the scholarship to NYU that was his ticket out.

“She taught me the word,” he said. Between the fifth and sixth course. “Сердце моё. She said it to everything she loved. The cat. Her sewing machine. Me.”

Under the table, I slid my foot against his ankle. Not aggressive — a point of contact. A secret in a room full of strangers. His eyes flickered.

“If you continue,” he said quietly, “I’m going to have to adjust my behavior in a way that will be noticeable to the waitstaff.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

His eyes darkened. “You’re going to pay for that.”

“I’m counting on it.”

The remaining four courses were an exercise in sustained tension. Alex ate with impeccable composure while his thumb drew circles against the inside of my thigh — small, steady, maddening — escalating from knee to the crease where thigh met hip. By the ninth course I was hard. Visibly, uncomfortably, can’t-stand-up-right-now hard.

“Check,” he said to the waiter. “My compliments to Chef Keller.”

In the elevator down, he pushed me against the wall. His hand on my chest, pinning me, and his mouth on mine before the doors closed. “Home. Now.”

He walked to his closet. Returned with two items. Silk ties — one dark gray, one navy. The kind he wore to board meetings.

“We discussed restraint as a possibility,” he said. “I’d like to pursue it. Tonight. If you—”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t finished the—”

“Yes, Alex. Whatever you’re about to say. Yes.”

He tied my wrists to the headboard. Not tight — firm. The silk was smooth against my skin, yielding enough to be comfortable, structured enough to hold. He checked the tension. Slid two fingers between the silk and my wrist. Adjusted.

“Safe word?”

“Offside. Same as always.”

“Color?”

“Green. Very, very green.”

“Tonight,” he said, “you don’t come until I tell you. You don’t speak unless I ask you a question. You lie here, and you take what I give you, and when I decide you’ve earned it, I’ll let you go.”

He started at my throat. His mouth on the chain — lips tracing the links, tongue touching the platinum. Down to my collarbone. Across my chest. He took his time mapping every nerve ending I had. My nipples. The hollow of my hip. Every spot that made my body arch and my jaw lock and sounds press against my teeth, desperate for release.

He avoided my cock. Worked around it with cruel precision. His mouth on my hips, my groin, the crease of my thigh — everywhere except the place I was aching for him to be. Every time his breath ghosted over me without contact, the deprivation was a physical thing.

He edged me three times. Three times to the cliff, three times pulling back, three times leaving me trembling and desperate, tied to his headboard with silk that cost more than a car payment. After the third edge, he entered me with the slowness I’d come to crave — the glacial, deliberate press that let me feel every inch.

His hand found the chain. Wrapped once around his fingers. Held.

“You are,” he said, moving inside me with devastating precision, “the most extraordinary thing I have ever had the privilege of ruining.”

“Four,” I managed.

He laughed. And the sex shifted from performance to play, from control to joy. He thrust harder. I wrapped my legs around his waist. The ties strained. The headboard creaked. He was saying my name and I was saying his and neither of us was quiet and neither of us cared.

“Now,” he said. “Come for me now.”

The orgasm was annihilating. It tore through me in waves that started at the base of my spine and expanded outward, through my chest, my throat, my bound hands, my clenched toes. I said his name like it was the last word I’d ever speak.

He followed. Inside me, deep, the chain still wrapped around his fingers, the sound he made — broken, beautiful — was a sound I’d spend the rest of my life trying to hear again.

After. The ties undone. His hands on my wrists — gentle, checking for marks, pressing soft kisses to the faint pink lines the silk had left.

“Best first date I’ve ever had,” I said.

“It wasn’t a first date. It was a strategically timed interpersonal engagement.”

“It was a date, Alex.”

“…It was a date.”

He pulled me against him. My head on his chest. His hand in my hair. “I waited three weeks to ask you. My hand booked the table before my brain authorized it.”

“Your hand has good instincts.”

“My hand has you. That’s better than instincts.”

Some things are worth the reservation. Even when you make it three weeks too early. Even when you’re terrified. Especially then.

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