Chapter Seven
Evie
The whole bar hums around us in a chorus of chaos.
Music, laughter, clinking glasses, a group from the library, another from the motorcycle club.
They’re all chattering about something, but I can’t hear any of it.
Not with Nick’s fingers brushing my thigh like that.
Not with the look in his eyes, like he’s torn between wanting me and punishing himself for it.
I see that he’s older. I know he probably won’t stay.
I know that he has a life outside of this weekend.
A life with a job, a home, a town just like this in another state.
He’s probably got friends and women he hits up when he feels lonely.
He’s probably got his own favorite bar, his own small-town bookstore, but here, in this moment, we make sense, and this feels too good to stop.
I grip the edge of the table, trying to look normal as he slips his big, rough hand under my skirt, and between my thighs, palming over my stockings with pressure that drives a bolt of energy through my clit.
I must move differently, because he holds me tighter, and leans into my ear, his breath hot, his voice deep as he says, “You like that, don’t you?”
Oh God!
My body shifts with his as he presses in harder, rubbing more directly against the swollen nub hidden behind layers of fabric. Somehow this feels even more erotic than touching me directly.
The bar is loud and crowded, red and silver tinsel hang from the beams, the band ahead plays cheery Christmas tunes, all while I sit tucked into hot Santa as his fingertip pulls at the tear in the seam of my stockings.
I guess Santa would be good at all things stocking related, wouldn’t he?
I moan as his thick finger slides into the seam and the stockings tear wider, making room for the rough pads of his fingers as they slide past the lips of my pussy and into my creamy center.
“You’re soaking wet for me in this crowded bar, aren’t you little one?”
Little one? Oh God, why do I like that? Why do I like being the tiny little one that he’s got balled up in the corner booth?
I’m sick. I’m sick, and I might actually be delusional because this can’t be happening.
My face is hot, I’m sure I’m red, but I don’t think anyone notices us or what we’re doing… I don’t think.
I glance around the room, taking in the dancing drunks and the gaggle of women in the corner drinking some kind of vodka mix drinks.
The point is to make sure no one is staring, but I’m not thinking straight.
In reality, they could all have their cameras pointed straight toward us and I wouldn’t notice.
My brain is a pile of mush focused mainly on Nick’s thick fingers, his rough voice, the muscle definition in his forearm, the size of his body, the girth of his cock as I rest my hand on his leg.
He presses in deeper, scratching in an upward motion that makes my toes curl inside my boots. “Let them watch. I like it when you squirm.”
My God!
My mouth opens and I pant for relief, but every move I make only drives him deeper, harder, faster. My hips shift and I bite back a moan as he touches all the right spots.
I’ve never been this girl. I play by the rules. I do the right thing. I don’t waver off the path of good. But here, right now, I’d let this man clear the table and fuck me into Tuesday with every one of these people watching.
Tension builds in my core, and though I don’t want this to end, I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. His touch is perfect. Perfect rhythm, perfect pressure, perfect everything!
“Come for me, Evie. Right here. Soak my hand.”
I swallow hard as a fiddle plays out the final notes on ‘Run Run Rudolph’ then give in to Santa’s touch, holding my body as still as possible as an orgasm rips through me. My legs convulse first, my eyes roll back into my head, and I collapse against Nick’s big, warm frame with a strangled sigh.
“Good girl,” he growls low in my ear, his fingers still curling tightly inside of me as I release in the back corner booth of Mullet’s bar with about sixty of my closest small-town friends surrounding me. I should be ashamed, but I’m not. Given the chance, I’d do it again.
God help me.
Maybe Tess was right. Maybe that chicken sweater was a big red flag telling everyone how much I needed cock because this little moment right here isn’t normal for me.
I don’t know who it would be normal for.
I can’t imagine many people are getting fingered at the bar.
Then again, I probably don’t come to the bar enough to know that for a fact.
Maybe people get fingered in bars all the time. I doubt they do, though.
Nick grins wide as he stares at me with a look of satisfaction. “You look relieved.”
“Relieved or insanely embarrassed. Either one. But… you are good with your hands, sir.”
“So did I earn my ‘real man’ badge or are we still thinking I’m a manifestation?”
I snort, trying not to smile. “Honestly, that might have hurt your case.”
“Yeah?” He grins smugly. “How’s that?”
“Are you kidding? The real me doesn’t do that. Not with tinsel overhead while a band plays. I will say, I think the woman in the corner having a meltdown might have helped distract folks.”
He glances toward the front corner of the bar where two brunettes sit sipping beer. One looks to be crying while the other’s lecturing. It’s not until the crier lifts her head that I realize who the two women are.
“Oh God.”
“What?” Nick shifts in his seat and pulls his hand from my warmth, licking his fingers casually as though he’s just finished a plate of fried chicken.
I try not to be aroused, but I am, and I want more, so much more, but now probably isn’t the time.
“The woman crying is my sister. The woman beside her, my lovely mother. We need to go.” I try shoving him from the booth, but before we make it up, the song ends, the crowd clears, and my mother looks straight at me.