God, Amber was fucking beautiful when she came. She was holding back--Foreman remembered how she'd cried out last time, how she'd nearly dissolved for him, her body shuddering against his--but even though she was quieter, Foreman could feel how unrestrained she was, how much she simply abandoned herself to her orgasm. He kept moving his hand, his finger inside her, his eyes trained on her face, seeing her eyes squeeze shut and her mouth open around a moan. "Amber..." It was half a warning, half an amazed reaction, and before he could finish saying anything else, she was kissing him. His cock jumped in her hand where she was still holding him, and Foreman choked back a groan of his own. Kissing her. Everyone watching. He'd thought he'd be lost if he kissed her, but instead, he felt like he was outside of the kiss, watching himself, just like the rest of their audience must be.
All his invincibility, the feeling that it didn't matter who saw, drained away, leaving him more embarrassed than he could remember. He pulled back from the kiss, licking his lips. Nobody seemed to be watching. The woman at the other table had finally stopped peeking, or at least Foreman didn't catch her at it. But his hand was wet and slippery, smelling--and, he imagined, tasting--like Amber. He drew away from her, sliding his hand out from between her clenched thighs. He took the napkin from his lap and wiped his hand as best he could. Each time he looked around, he expected to see someone outright staring, in disgust or lascivious interest. It made his skin crawl, like there were a thousand eyes on him even if he couldn't catch them at it.
He twisted back to face Amber when she spoke. No, he wasn't fun. This wasn't fun. It had been. Had been so overwhelming that he'd lost track of himself. He'd wanted to break the rules, but now that he had, he felt a sick, nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know whether to get pissed off about it--anything but this feeling of humiliation--or to simply disengage, brush it all away like nothing had happened. Even as he wavered between reactions, he knew neither one was fair. He'd started this, continued it, and he had no right to get uptight about it now. But that didn't mean he was able to finish it. Amber's encouragements, her voice, her hand teasing him, only made his shame hotter.
"I can't," he said, low and strained. "Not here." He drew her hand out of his pants. God, couldn't believe he was stopping, when he was so close, when he didn't have to. It hurt to zip up his pants. His erection pushed against the zipper, the teeth digging in even through his shorts. He was throbbing, painfully, but he finished fastening his pants, and buttoned his suit jacket all the way down--at least that would hide how hard he was from a casual glance, although it would be stupidly, moronically obvious to anyone who knew. "I'll--be right back," he said, standing up. He took the shortest, most discreet route to the bathrooms that he could manage, trying to walk as normally as possible, and ducked into the men's, hoping like hell it was empty.
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All his invincibility, the feeling that it didn't matter who saw, drained away, leaving him more embarrassed than he could remember. He pulled back from the kiss, licking his lips. Nobody seemed to be watching. The woman at the other table had finally stopped peeking, or at least Foreman didn't catch her at it. But his hand was wet and slippery, smelling--and, he imagined, tasting--like Amber. He drew away from her, sliding his hand out from between her clenched thighs. He took the napkin from his lap and wiped his hand as best he could. Each time he looked around, he expected to see someone outright staring, in disgust or lascivious interest. It made his skin crawl, like there were a thousand eyes on him even if he couldn't catch them at it.
He twisted back to face Amber when she spoke. No, he wasn't fun. This wasn't fun. It had been. Had been so overwhelming that he'd lost track of himself. He'd wanted to break the rules, but now that he had, he felt a sick, nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know whether to get pissed off about it--anything but this feeling of humiliation--or to simply disengage, brush it all away like nothing had happened. Even as he wavered between reactions, he knew neither one was fair. He'd started this, continued it, and he had no right to get uptight about it now. But that didn't mean he was able to finish it. Amber's encouragements, her voice, her hand teasing him, only made his shame hotter.
"I can't," he said, low and strained. "Not here." He drew her hand out of his pants. God, couldn't believe he was stopping, when he was so close, when he didn't have to. It hurt to zip up his pants. His erection pushed against the zipper, the teeth digging in even through his shorts. He was throbbing, painfully, but he finished fastening his pants, and buttoned his suit jacket all the way down--at least that would hide how hard he was from a casual glance, although it would be stupidly, moronically obvious to anyone who knew. "I'll--be right back," he said, standing up. He took the shortest, most discreet route to the bathrooms that he could manage, trying to walk as normally as possible, and ducked into the men's, hoping like hell it was empty.