Stacy Vs. SEAL

“Oh, God, this is so good,” Fiona cries out, cleaning out another dish. For a girl as small as she is, she sure likes food. Which is fine, since we’re eating at the Blue Hill, and our dinner consists of a procession of a dozen different dishes. I’m more of a beer and burger kind of guy, but I don’t mind all this fancy stuff, especially if it makes her happy. I know she’d be just as happy sitting at home eating something home cooked by yours truly (I know my way around a kitchen, don’t judge a book by its cover), but I wanted to treat her.

Of course, it didn’t take long for me to regret getting out of the house. The moment word got out that we were dining at the Blue Hill, a host of paparazzi, journalists, and TV stations quickly amassed in front of the restaurant’s entrance. I’m paying for extra security out of my own pocket, mind you, just to stop them from storming the place and taking Fiona and I as their hostages.

“Don’t they ever get tired?” I sigh, looking at the entrance. The moment I turn my head there are a dozen bright flashes as the photographers try to take a picture of me. This is madness.

“Just ignore them,” Fiona says happily, taking another piece of venison into her mouth. I don’t know how she does it, but she took to her role as New York’s darling like a true natural. Forget about Audrey Hepburn, soon enough young girls will be sharing photos of Fiona in their Instagram accounts, motivational citations and all.

“How can I ignore them when they hound us like this?” I protest, but she just waves her hand casually.

“People want to read about us.”

“Yeah… But just remember that these people out there don’t care about you or me. They care about selling newspapers, nothing more.”

“If the worst happens, they’ll leave us alone,” she just shrugs.

“Oh, you have no idea what they’re capable of. They’ll squeeze every last penny out of you, even if that means dragging you through the mud wearing a rucksack.”

“They can try,” she smiles, and that worries me. She really has no idea about how the media treats people.

“Fiona --” I start, but she cuts me short by placing the tip of her heel right behind my legs. The tablecloth is long enough for what happens under the table to remain out of sight, though, thank God for that.

“Now, cheer up,” she grins, softly pressing the tip of her foot over my crotch. My heart picks up the pace in a hurry, making my cock harden before you can even spell my name.

“That helps,” I grin back at her, already imagining all the dirty things I’ll do to her once we get back to my place. Fuck, if she keeps teasing me like this we might not even get home; I’ll just get a room across the street and fuck her silly until we both collapse from exhaustion.

“What do you say we get out of here?” I whisper, throwing caution to the wind and wanting to turn my thoughts from just now into a reality.

“I’d say that’s a great idea,” she whispers right back at me, pressing harder against my aching cock before finally taking her foot off from between my legs. I leave some money on the table, large tip and all, and then start walking across the restaurant dining-room floor before remembering what’s waiting for us at the door—all these soulless journalists.

“Maybe we should ask about using a service door,” I tell Fiona.

“Nonsense,” she replies in a heartbeat, taking my arm in hers and strutting out of the restaurant with her chin held high. I narrow my eyes into slits as the bright flash of the cameras explodes around us, the cool air of New York cutting through my shirt.

“Danny--”

“Fiona--”

“How’s your night?”

“Enjoyed dinner?”

“Marriage?”

“Baby?”

Jesus fucking Christ, what’s wrong with these people? Take a fucking chill pill, everyone, I almost feel like saying.

“Thank you, everyone,” Fiona chirps merrily, beaming a smile at the journalists as they surround us like a pack of blood hungry wolves. Fuck, I just want to get out of here. “We’re enjoying our night, yes, and --”

“Fiona, how’s it like to be credited for Manning’s success as a quarterback?” A gangly guy with greasy hair and horn-rimmed glasses asks her, raising his voice above all others and shoving a recorder close to her face.

“Oh, I think it’s all been a bit exaggerated, you know? Danny is his own man, and his success belongs only to him. That said, I do my best to keep him in good spirits before a game.”

“What kind of things do you talk about before a game?” The guy continues, and the other journalists just fall in line, soaking in every word comi

ng out of Fiona’s mouth. She’s the fucking star here, not me, that’s for sure. These guys would crown her Queen of the United States if they could.

“I remind him of how hard he works, of course, and I might give him a little incentive if he pulls a win, which he always does,” she chuckles, her voice as bright as blue skies. She then does a little wink, and you can tell that they’re loving it. Some are just jotting down everything she says in small yellow notepads, others are clicking away with their cameras, and one seems on the verge of asking for a selfie with her.