Paul McCartney Imagines

61

You weren't planning on teasing Paul tonight. Not originally.

But the moment you stepped out of the hotel bathroom in your black satin dress—backless, hugging every curve, your hair done perfectly to match the old-Hollywood glamour of the evening—Paul had frozen mid-sentence. He just stared. Slack-jawed.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

That had sealed it. The teasing was going to happen.

⸻

The restaurant was elegant in the kind of way only 1964 Manhattan could pull off—dimly lit chandeliers, soft jazz playing under the clink of silverware, and white-gloved waiters gliding between velvet booths. You were tucked into one near the back. Private. But not too private.

Paul looked unfairly good in his tailored black suit. Tie loosened just enough to be sinful. His dark eyes sparkled as he poured you a glass of wine, his fingers brushing yours—intentional.

You smiled as your heel slid up the inside of his calf.

His gaze flicked up, amused but wary. "Don't start."

"Start what?" you asked innocently, fingers delicately tracing the edge of your glass.

"You've got that look."

You shifted slightly, pretending to reach for your napkin as your hand slipped under the table and landed on his thigh. His breath hitched.

"Y/N..." he warned, low and shaky.

Your fingers crept higher. He was already semi-hard. "You wore these trousers on purpose," you murmured. "They show everything."

Paul leaned in, his voice a whisper. "You keep going, and I swear I'll drag you into the loo and make you scream."

You smirked. "I'm counting on it."

You got up from your chair and got under the table. You unzipped him beneath the safety of the long tablecloth, your fingers slipping inside to find him already heavy, hard, hot against your palm.

His eyes widened. "Y/N... not here, not in front of everyone." Paul said.

"Yes here, I want to make you feel so good" you said and paul tensed as you leaned forward, lips brushing the head of his cock.

And then—of course—the waiter returned.

"Mr. McCartney," the young man said nervously, "Would you like to hear tonight's specials?"

Paul sucked in a sharp breath as you took him into your mouth.

"Y-Yes," he managed. "Sure. Go ahead."

The waiter pulled out a notepad. "To start, we have a cream of mushroom soup, then—"

You slowly took more of Paul in, tongue swirling, jaw relaxing as you hollowed your cheeks. His thighs flexed under your hands. He gave the slightest shake of his head at you, as if begging for mercy—but his hand slid under the tablecloth and tangled in your hair.

"—duck à l'orange, or the filet mignon, which is aged twenty-eight days—"

Your hand stroked what your mouth couldn't reach.

Paul's voice was strangled. "T-That one. Filet."

"Excellent," the waiter said brightly. "And for the lady?"

You glanced up at Paul with innocent eyes, still moving your mouth slowly up and down his cock.

"She'll...have the same," Paul gasped.