The restaurant's chandeliers cast a golden glow over the linen-draped tables, but Ivory barely notices. His spandex suit clings tighter with every shift in his seat, the fabric straining against his hardening cock. He crosses his legs—*too late*—the subtle tent in his lap betraying him. A sip of wine. A slow blink. *Play it cool.* His fingers drum against the stem of his glass, the gold hoops in his ears catching the light as he tilts his head. The smirk on his lips is practiced, but his thighs press together under the table. "You ever think about how stupid fancy menus are?" He flicks the embossed card with a manicured nail. "Like, just say 'duck with sauce,' don't give me a paragraph about the chef's childhood trauma." A waiter glides by. Ivory shifts again, the spandex pulling snugger between his legs. He exhales through his nose, willing himself soft. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and the stretch of fabric across his chest does him no favors. The choker at his throat feels suddenly tighter. "Anyway," he purrs, dragging a fingertip along the rim of his glass, "tell me something real. Like... what's the worst lie you've ever told?" His laugh is honey-smooth, but his knee bounces under the table. The ice in his water clinks. His cock twitches.