Chapter 61: Two parts mission (3)

Tom did not give himself time to overthink it. He decided to try out the first idea that formed in his brain.

He shifted in his seat, drew his phone out, and let his expression change as if a call had just come in. The performance was small; slight crease between his brows, a muted sound of urgency, the phone already rising to his ear.

"Yes?" A pause. "The network is terrible in here. Give me a moment."

He lowered the phone halfway and glanced toward Sienna and Adrian with the right mixture of apology and necessity.

"I need to take this. Reception’s bad at the table."

Adrian waved him off easily. Sienna watched him a second longer, then nodded once. Nothing in either face suggested suspicion. The excuse had landed cleanly.

Tom rose and walked away from the table at a controlled pace, his phone still raised, still maintaining the posture of a man handling an inconvenient call. Only after he passed the partition and left their direct line of sight did he lower the device and change direction.

"That went smoothly more than I expected." He mumbled under his breath.

The restrooms sat down a quieter corridor, away from the main floor’s noise. It had soft lighting. As he walked deeper into the section, the murmur from the dinning area thinned behind him.

He slowed near the entrance to the women’s restroom just long enough to confirm the immediate area was clear, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Stella was there.

She stood at the far end near the sinks, both her hands braced against the counter, her head slightly lowered as she tried to gather herself. The moment the door sounded behind her, her spine went rigid. She turned sharply and the anger hit her face at once when she saw who it was.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" she hissed.

Tom let the door close fully behind him and stared at her intensely despite how she had just hissed in anger. Up close, he could see the effect of the messages being clearer: the heightened color in her cheeks, the incomplete control in her breathing, the tension running through her shoulders and thighs.

"Finishing what started at the table," he replied.

Stella’s eyes flashed. "You must be out of your mind. I never agreed to public games. Texts? With my fiancé sitting right there? Do you understand how dangerous that is for me?"

"For your image?" Tom asked.

"Yes."

He looked at her without heat and without apology. "No, wrong answer." He said and she furrowed her brows in confusion.

"You left because your body has started reacting." He stated slowly, as if intentionally wanted the words to land harder. It actually did.

Her mouth tightened. "Don’t."

"You’re wet."

The words landed bare. Stella’s chin lifted immediately, pride rising to cover the strike.

"I’m not-"

"Don’t lie to me." Tom’s voice stayed low, but there was no give in it. "Not after the way you closed your legs under that table."

The restroom held their silence. Muffled restaurant noise still existed somewhere beyond the door, distant enough to feel separate and close enough to remind them of the risk. Stella’s breathing had gone shallow again. For a second she looked prepared to force the denial through anyway.

Then the fight in her expression shifted.

"...Yes," she said, scraped thin by reluctance. "I am. What exactly do you think you’re going to do about it?"

Tom stepped closer. Not rushed. Not grabbing. Closing distance with enough control that every inch felt intentional.

"I can help you deal with it," he said. "But your fiancé is downstairs waiting for you to come back looking composed. If you want me to stop, say so now."

"But just know I have come to help you deal with it." He added.

Stella stared at him. Anger, arousal, and self-preservation pulled across her face in clear conflict. Her fingers flexed against the edge of the counter. She hated the position he had put her in and she hated more that her body had already chosen before her pride could finish arguing.

"And how," she asked, quieter, "do you intend to help?"

Tom gave her a small smile in response, then closed the last of the space between them.

His hand settled at her hip first, firm enough to hold her in place, then slid down with certainty. He watched her face as his fingers found the hem of her dress and moved beneath it. Stella’s breath hitched hard when he brushed the inner side of her thigh. Her body went taut, not in refusal, but in sharp recognition of where this was going.

Then his hand reached her panties.

The fabric was already soaked through. Heat clung to his fingers before he even slipped past the barrier. Stella’s eyes fluttered at the contact, a broken sound threatening at the base of her throat before she forced it down. Tom dragged his fingers once along the wet seam of the cloth, pressing just enough to make her feel how obvious her state was, then pushed the fabric aside.

When he sank two fingers into her, her whole body jerked softly against the counter.

She was dripping, hot, slick, and tight around the sudden intrusion. Her hand flew to his forearm and gripped hard, not to stop him, but to anchor herself as her knees threatened to give. Tom worked his fingers into her with controlled, filthy movement, curling against her inner walls, spreading the wetness he had forced out of her at the table with nothing but words.

"I knew it... You’re only lost for words when I’m inside you." he murmured.

Stella’s head tipped forward, a shaky breath breaking from her lips as her cunt clenched hard around his fingers.

Then....

*Knock. Knock.*

The sound landed against the restroom door, clear and sudden.

No voice followed it.

No one called out. No name. No request. Just the two hard knocks, and then silence on the other side.

Stella froze around his fingers. Tom went still with her, every sense sharpening toward the locked door and whoever stood beyond it.