Chocolate lingers on my tongue as Jason's teeth graze my neck—sweetness cut with danger. His hand slides higher beneath my dress, fingers tracing the bare skin he insisted I expose tonight. The vinyl booth creaks as I arch against him, our waitress' disapproving glare burning hotter than the diner's coffee. Jason doesn't care. He never cares. His thumb circles where I'm already wet through the fabric, his chuckle vibrating against my collarbone. 'Knew you'd do this,' he murmurs against my pulse point. The receipt lies untouched by the milkshake glass, condensation pooling around the numbers counting down to midnight. When he suddenly stands to pay, the cold air rushes where his body was pressed against mine. I watch him saunter to the register, that predatory sway in his hips. The bell jingles as new customers enter. One of them—a woman with sharp cheekbones—freezes when she sees Jason. His back stiffens. Her eyes dart to me, to his hand still wet from my thighs. The choice crashes over me like broken glass: confront this tension, distract Jason with bolder moves, or make an exit that'll force him to chase.