Ava & Leo - The Restaurant

La Mer glowed in the late-summer dusk, all burnished brass and deep sea-green velvet. Chandeliers dripped crystal like foam, and the hush of expensive cutlery floated above the soft clink of ice in glasses. Ava stood at the maître d's podium in the red dress Leo had chosen--silk, bias-cut, the hem skimming mid-thigh. Underneath, exactly nothing. The fabric whispered against her skin each time she shifted; the knowledge was an electric hum low in her belly.

The maître d' led them to a corner table draped in white linen that fell almost to the floor. A single candle guttered inside a hurricane glass, throwing gold across their faces. Leo's hand settled at the small of her back, thumb tracing the hollow where spine met silk. He looked boyish and lethal in a charcoal linen jacket, collar open, short light-brown hair catching the candlelight. His smile was all mischief.

They sat opposite each other, knees almost touching beneath the linen. Ava's strappy sandals were delicate things--thin gold cords that looped around her ankles and crossed over the tops of her feet, leaving her soles completely exposed to the breeze of hidden air vents. She tucked them back, heels against the chair legs, nerves already crackling.

A waiter poured olive oil into a shallow ceramic dish, pale green and fragrant. Leo thanked him with perfect composure, then waited until the man retreated before sliding the dish closer.

"House-pressed," Leo murmured, swirling the oil so it caught the candle. "From Liguria. Good for the skin, they say."

Ava's eyes flicked to the nearby diners--an elderly couple sharing a quiet anniversary, two businesswomen laughing over clinking martinis. No one looking. Still, her heart hammered against silk. Leo dipped two fingers into the oil and let them drip, slow and deliberate, onto the arch of her right foot. The liquid was warm from the candle's heat, viscous and fragrant. It pooled for an instant before beginning to slide toward her heel. She felt every millimetre.

She kept her face serene, fingers tightening around the stem of her water glass. Leo's touch followed the oil--light circles that spread it into every ridge and hollow. The sensation bloomed outward, a slow, golden burn. She tried to anchor herself to the weight of the linen across her lap, to the taste of rosemary on the air, but the tickle was insidious, creeping up her calf like ivy.

He used the edge of the oil dish to shield his movements from passing waitstaff. His thumb pressed into the ball of her foot, then drifted to the sensitive hollow beneath her toes. Ava swallowed a gasp, disguising it as a cough. She lifted her wine and sipped, cool chardonnay sliding over her tongue while fire licked across her sole.

A bread basket arrived. Leo tore a piece of focaccia and dragged it through the oil, eyes never leaving hers. While he chewed, he reached beneath the cloth with his other hand and found the comb he'd slipped from his pocket earlier--a slim, fine-toothed stainless-steel tail comb. He angled it so the spine rested against the inside of her arch. Slowly, slowly, he drew the teeth across the oiled skin. The tines were cold metal; each tooth was a tiny spark. Ava's toes curled involuntarily, pressing into the carpet. She felt the comb skate down to her heel, pause, reverse. Her breath caught at the back of her throat.

Across the table, her expression gave nothing away--lips parted just enough to seem relaxed, eyes half-lidded in studied boredom. Inside, every nerve screamed. She shifted in her chair, thighs pressing together, and the absence of underwear became a vivid ache. Candlelight flickered across her collarbones, highlighting the faint flush that had risen there.

When the waiter returned to describe the specials, Ava forced herself to smile, nod at the sea-bass crudo, listen to the list of accompaniments. All the while the comb traced invisible cursive along her foot. She felt her toes trying to grip the carpet, nails scraping softly against leather sole. Leo's fingers adjusted, splaying her toes apart so the comb could dip between them. Metal teeth scraped the delicate webs; she tasted copper where her lip met tooth.

The waiter left. Ava leaned forward slightly, elbows on linen, voice a thread of sound beneath the restaurant murmur. "I should mention," she murmured, "I skipped the panties tonight."

Leo's brows lifted, a flicker of surprise quickly banked. Under the table, his hand paused. Ava used the moment--she extended one foot, arch flexing, and slid it gently up the inside of his calf. The oil on her skin left a faint sheen on his trousers. Higher, until the ball of her foot found the unmistakable swell beneath his zipper. She pressed, slow circles, heat for heat.

His inhale was sharp; the comb stilled. Ava's toes curled around the shape of him, stroking from base to tip through the fabric. She felt his thigh muscles tense, felt the pulse that leapt beneath her sole. For a moment the balance shifted--her foot, his undoing.

But Leo recovered quickly. He caught her ankle, guided her foot back to the floor, and dipped the comb once more into the oil dish. This time he used the pointed tail, dragging the tip in tiny, relentless spirals around the center of her arch while his thumb worked the heel. The sensation was sharper than the teeth--one pinpoint, moving, circling, never letting her predict where it would land next. Ava's nails dug into her own palm beneath the table; she forced a serene nod at the sommelier's suggestion of a Sancerre.

Salads arrived--baby greens, shaved fennel, citrus segments glistening. A small carafe of the same olive oil was poured into a fresh dish. Leo thanked the server, then tipped a little more onto his fingers. This time he used the fork from the place setting--tines turned down, blunt outer edge sliding along the oiled skin like a cold, narrow rail. He traced it from heel to toe, then flipped it so the pointed tips pressed lightly, indenting, then releasing. Ava felt her stomach flip; the fork was metal and precise, each tine a separate sting of tickle.

She tried to anchor herself in the salad--cool mint, bright lemon--but the fork kept moving, now sawing gently along the outer edge of her foot, now tapping a soft, rapid rhythm against the ball. Her toes splayed, flexed, splayed again. She imagined the linen as a tent, shielding them, and prayed no passing diner glanced down at the rhythmic tremor beneath.

Conversation flowed--Leo asked about her next trail race, she answered, voice steady as shaken water. Beneath the cloth, she slid her other foot back into play, pressing against his thigh, tracing the seam of his pocket. He shifted, trapping her foot gently between his knees, holding her still while the fork continued its patient torment.

Dessert menus arrived. Ava's foot was slick now, almost dripping; Leo blotted excess oil with his napkin, folded small and discreet. He replaced the fork with his thumb again--slow, deliberate circles that gathered every nerve ending into one bright point. Ava felt her hips shift involuntarily, the silk of her dress whispering against itself. She bit the inside of her cheek, tasted citrus and the faint iron of restraint.

The candle guttered lower, throwing longer shadows. Somewhere a glass shattered--tiny, distant drama--yet the world outside their linen cocoon felt miles away. Ava's breath had grown shallow; her eyes, when she met Leo's, were dark with challenge and something softer.

At last the bill came. Leo signed, fingers steady, while Ava eased her feet back into the sandals. The leather straps were cold against her heated skin; oil left faint prints on the insoles. She stood carefully--legs steady only through sheer will--and felt the slick residue between her toes with every step.

Outside, the night was warm, city lights blinking awake. Leo opened the passenger door for her, but before she could slide in, he caught her wrist. "Tomorrow," he said quietly, "I'm taking you to the cabin. All day. No schedule, no audience."

Ava's smile was slow, wicked. "Bring the comb."

He brushed a thumb across her swollen bottom lip. "And you bring the oil."

They drove away, the faint scent of Ligurian olive still clinging to her skin, a promise glowing between them like the last ember of the restaurant candle.