The Christmas Contract: Chapter 31

The dining room of Aster & Ash, the amazing restaurant in the Gramercy we’re eating at tonight, is gorgeous. Brassy light, white linen, a skyline turned to glitter by snow. Somewhere behind a column, a string trio plays a melody I half recognize.

Orlov walks us to the hostess stand, then peels off with a quiet, “I’ll be outside.”

Our table is a corner two-seater high top with tea light candles and silk napkins.

“This place is so nice, it’s almost scary,” I say as Damien pulls out my chair.

“Then you’ll have to be very brave,” he says, deadpan, aside from the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A waiter approaches with two glasses and a bottle of champagne. Damien lifts a hand. “No alcohol tonight. Two mocktails,” he says. “Something bright for her, bitter for me.”

The waiter lights up and looks at me. “Clementine Star for you. Clementine, ginger, mint, fizz. And for you,” he looks at Damien, “Black Tie—grapefruit, tonic, black tea, rosemary.”

Damien turns to me. “You good with that?”

“As long as mine comes with a tiny umbrella.”

The waiter grins and walks away. The drinks arrive fast, jeweled and fizzing. And with a tiny umbrella. We clink glasses.

“To the future,” he says.

“And whatever it may hold,” I add. Truth is, I have no idea. And I’m a little scared.

The hostess returns with a woman. She’s elegant, late fifties, immaculate tailoring, and a poise that comes from being waited on, never waiting.

“Someone wanted to say hello,” the hostess says.

Her name lands like a headline. She’s Imani Dupré. I knew it before the hostess said it—everyone in plus-size fashion knows who she is. She’s one of the biggest names in the game, the woman who put god-tier suiting on bodies like mine and refused to call it a niche.

She’s glorious up close, dressed in a midnight silk moiré tuxedo wrap with a sculpted shawl collar, wide palazzo trousers that move like poured ink, a narrow leather obi belt knotted just off-center. Low stacked heels, a vintage gold cuff at one wrist, and a fountain-pen brooch clipped to her lapel like a private joke. Her silver hair is styled in a precise bob, skin luminous, makeup flawless. She has the kind of presence that hushes rooms without trying.

“Cassandra?” she says, smiling at me first, not Damien.

“I. Um.” I turn to Damien, looking for an explanation. He just smiles. He knows exactly what’s going on.

“I’m Imani, a friend of Damien’s.”

“Hello, Imani,” Damien says, his tone warm and familiar.

“Always a pleasure, Damien.”

She offers her hand, and I take it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Now, far be it from me to intrude upon a date, but I was fortunate enough to see some of your recent sketches.”

I blink. “I’m sorry, you what?”

“The ones on your worktable,” Damien explains. “I took it upon myself to send some her way.”

I shoot him a look. He receives it without apologizing.

Imani’s smile sharpens. “Your lines are clean. You drape for curves instead of hiding them. That is rare. If you’re interested, my workshop is open after New Year’s. Come by. Sit with my pattern master. We’ll talk about an apprenticeship and credentials for your own label.” She hands me a card. My fingers do a tiny shake I hope nobody sees.

“I–are you serious?” I manage.

“Very serious,” she says, amused.

Damien nudges me softly. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, of course!”

“After New Year’s,” she reiterates. “Bring your ten best looks—and your spine.” She gives me a wink. “You’ll need both.” She squeezes my shoulder, nods to Damien, and walks away.

She’s gone before my pulse finishes tripping over itself. I sip my Clementine Star. The ginger sparks and settles me at the same time.

“Are you buying me success?” I ask, eyes narrowing.

“I’m opening a door,” he corrects. “You do the walking.”

“You showed her my work without asking.”

“I show people what I’m proud of,” he says unapologetically. It hits soft and hard at once.

The food arrives. Shaved fennel with seared scallops, edges just shy of caramel. Sourdough still breathing steam. I hum without meaning to.

“You’re timing my bites,” I say with a mock glare.

“I’m admiring them, and you.”

Eye contact stretches until the room narrows to the two of us.

I touch the stem of my glass, his gaze following the movement. “Cassandra, I have to be honest with you about something. The thought of you carrying—” He stops, recalibrates. “It does something to me.”

“A good something, I hope?”

“Makes me harder than I have ever been in my life,” he says.

His hand slides under the tablecloth to the inside of my thigh. No rush. All certainty. He doesn’t go any higher. He waits.

“Yes,” I say, wanting.

His fingers trace slow circles on the inside of my knee, testing. He increases the pressure along my inner thigh, stopping each time the waiter appears. My breath picks up, but I keep my face composed. He approves of the discipline; I can see it in his eyes.

“Smile for me,” he whispers.

“Bossy,” I whisper back, smiling.

“Accurate.”

The waiter appears with more warm sourdough. I grip my water glass as Damien’s hand withdraws, like he has never misbehaved in his life.

“More bread?” the waiter offers.

“Dangerous,” I say, voice light.

“We live for danger,” Damien tells him with a smooth grin. The waiter laughs and walks away.

His hand returns, a whisper higher. The string trio leans into something romantic, as if on purpose. The city beyond the glass looks like it’s been dusted with sugar.

“I’m not interested in displaying you,” he says. “I’m interested in keeping you.”

“I’m not a trophy.”

“You’re a choice,” he says. “Mine. And yours.”

“Dessert?” the waiter asks at my elbow, appearing with a dessert tray. There’s one with a dramatic French name and a gloss like a mirror. I point. “That one.”

Damien nods to the waiter.

“You’re generous,” I say, arching a brow.

He squeezes my thigh under the table. “I can be.”

I laugh under my breath. “Thank you,” I say quietly, circling back because gratitude feels right. “For Imani.”

“I can’t wait to see what you can do,” he replies.

“I can’t wait to show you.”

“Same here. Now, relax,” he whispers.

His fingers begin tracing the sensitive skin of my upper inner thigh. My legs part slightly, instinctively, my body leaning into my need. His touch is slow and perfect, inching toward the heat between my legs. I bite my lip, trying to keep my face neutral as a waiter glides past, oblivious.

Damien’s thumb brushes the edge of my panties, and I stifle a gasp, my slit already slick with want.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. “So wet for me already.”

His finger slips beneath the lace, teasing my folds, circling my clit with a featherlight touch that makes my hips twitch. I grip the edge of the table, nails digging into the cloth, fighting to stay composed as he works me with slow, precise strokes.

“Look at me,” he says. I meet his gaze. “Do you want me to make you come, right here?”

I moan and close my eyes, trying my hardest to hide what’s happening.

“Y–yes.”

He keeps touching me, teasing my clit. “That would be indecent.”

“It would.”

“But you’re not an indecent girl, are you?”

When his finger slides inside me, curling just right, I choke back a moan, my pussy clenching around him.

“Damien,” I whisper, barely audible. My thighs begin trembling as he adds a second finger and pumps slowly, his thumb circling my clit in time. The din of the restaurant fades until it’s just him, his touch, and the pressure building in my core. “You’re gonna make me come,” I breathe, voice shaky, pleading.

He stops. The bastard.

“No,” he says, moving his hand out from under the table. “You’re not that indecent. In time. When I want you to be.”

I moan and squirm a bit, wishing he was back inside of me. “You’re a real dick,” I say with a smirk. “You know that?”

“I know. We’ll finish this at home. If you’re good.”

The dessert lands, glossy and indecent in a socially acceptable way. I take the first bite. It’s rich, dark, and perfectly balanced. He watches me taste it, nothing else on his mind but me and the food.

“Good?” he asks.

“Very.”

He takes a bite, surrenders the spoon, and leans back.

“After New Year’s,” he says, practical again, “we’ll build a schedule with her. Three days a week. Morning blocks. No events on those nights. You design. You sleep. You eat.”

I raise my glass. “Look at you, being all soft.”

“I told you,” he says. “Incentive.”

We finish the dessert, the waiter brings the check, and he signs with that clean, precise script of his. The snow falls heavier outside as the trio finishes the song and takes a break.

Damien stands and offers his hand. I take it because I want to, not because I have to. His fingers close around mine, warm and firm.

“Let’s go home,” he says as we turn toward the exit.