I WANT the Bartender Explicit Erotica #3
She did not get in yet. Neither did he. They stood in the pocket of dark between her car and the concrete pillar.
His jacket slid off his shoulder and he caught it without looking.
The motion pulled his shirt tight across his chest.
More ink showed at the V of the collar, a wing or a blade, she could not tell, only that it kept going down.
“Last chance to be the bartender who walks home alone,” she said.
“Last chance to be the regular who tips and leaves.”
Linda’s pulse sat in her throat and lower. She could feel how slick she already was, a fact she would have to deal with the second fabric shifted. She put her palm on the roof of the car to steady herself and the metal was cold enough to bite.
“Get in,” she said.
Marc opened the rear door. The interior light painted a slice of back seat, leather, enough room if they were willing to be inelegant. He waited for her to move first.
She slid in sideways, bag on the floor, back against the far door.
The position left no mystery about intent.
Marc folded himself in after her and pulled the door shut.
The light died. Garage murk took over, orange from a distant fixture, enough to see the shape of his mouth and the black on his throat.
They sat there for one full breath without touching. The car smelled like her perfume and the leather conditioner the dealership used. His knee pressed the outside of hers because there was nowhere else for a man that size to put it.
“Still just talk?” he asked.
Linda looked at the ink disappearing under his shirt and then at his hands resting on his thighs, those same hands that had poured her drinks for months.
“Talk later,” she said.
She reached for him.
Linda’s hand found the front of Marc’s shirt and twisted.
The cotton bunched in her fist. She pulled and he came with it, mouth on hers harder than the careful talk of the last two hours had promised.
He tasted like the mint he chewed between pours and something darker underneath.
His tongue pushed past her teeth and she opened for it, a sound leaving her throat that the garage would have swallowed if anyone had been close enough to hear.
His palm landed on her waist, hot through silk. Then it slid up, thumb finding the underside of her breast like he had already mapped it from across the bar. She arched into the contact. The seatbelt buckle dug into her hip and she did not care.
“Shirt,” she said against his mouth.
Marc sat back enough to drag the black fabric over his head.
The interior was dim but not blind. Street-orange leaked through the tint and painted every line on him.
Ink covered his chest in overlapping pieces: a bird mid-flight over the left pec, script along a rib, a broken chain that disappeared toward his hip.
She put both hands on him because looking was not enough.
Skin warmer than the car. Smooth except where a scar cut through a wave tattoo on his side.
She dragged her nails over it and felt him inhale.
“Further,” she said.
He popped the button on his jeans himself. The sound was loud in the closed car. Zipper. He shoved denim and underwear down just far enough. His cock sprang up thick and already wet at the tip, and Linda’s brain stalled.
Tattoos. Not just near it. On it.
Black work wrapped the base and climbed the shaft in a tight band of leaves and thorns, the same style as the rose on his arm but smaller, denser, following the vein on the underside. The head was bare, flushed dark, a bead of precum catching what little light there was. She stared.
“You inked your cock.”
“Year ago.” His voice had gone rough. “Hurt like a bitch. Healed worse. You going to keep staring or put your mouth on it?”
Linda laughed once, shocked and hungry. She wrapped her hand around him.
The inked skin was slightly different under her palm, a faint raised texture where the needle had packed color.
He was hot, heavier than she had guessed from the way his jeans sat.
She stroked once from root to head and felt him kick in her fist.
“Christ, Linda.”
She bent in the cramped space, one knee on the seat, ass against the door panel, and licked the drop off the head.
Salt. Clean skin. A ghost of soap. She took him into her mouth and the taste of him flooded her, thick and immediate.
The tattooed stretch of shaft slid over her tongue.
She hollowed her cheeks and went down until her lips met the thorn band at the base and her throat protested.
Marc’s hand fisted in her hair. Not shoving. Holding. “Fuck. That’s—don’t stop.”
She did not stop. She worked him with her mouth the way she had thought about on that stool, filthy and wet, spit already slicking her chin.
The car filled with the sound of it: soft gags when she pushed too far, the wet pull when she backed off to breathe, his low curses that did not sound practiced.
She cupped his balls with her free hand.
Heavy. Tightening already, but he did not thrust up like a man about to lose it.
26 and still holding, jaw clenched, watching her with his shirt off and ink everywhere her eyes could reach.
Her own slacks were a mess. She could feel how soaked the silk between her legs had gotten, clinging.
She reached down blindly, popped her own button, shoved her hand inside.
Two fingers found her pussy slick and swollen.
She rubbed her clit in tight circles while she sucked him and the double sensation made her moan around his cock.
“That’s it,” Marc said. “Get your fingers in that cunt while you choke on me. I want to hear it.”
She pushed two fingers inside herself and the stretch pulled a broken sound out of her that vibrated on his shaft. He hissed. His hips gave one small jerk, then locked down again. Still not close to finishing. The control in it made her clench around her own fingers.
She pulled off his cock with a wet pop and dragged her tongue along the tattooed vein. “These go all the way under?”
“Find out.”
She shoved his jeans lower. More ink. A thin line of script followed the crease where thigh met groin and vanished toward his ass.
She wanted the jeans off completely and there was no room.
She settled for wrapping both hands around him, twisting on the upstroke the way the thorns suggested direction, and taking the head back into her mouth.
Marc’s breathing went ragged. One hand left her hair and shoved inside her open slacks from the front, knocking her own fingers aside.
His were thicker. He found her clit immediately and rubbed, no teasing, the pad of his thumb working her in the same rhythm she was sucking him.
The angle was ugly. It was perfect. She came first like that, mouth stuffed with tattooed cock, his thumb ruthless on her clit, her cry muffled and filthy.
Her pussy fluttered and spilled more wet onto his hand and the leather.
He kept rubbing her through it until she jerked back, oversensitive, spit stringing from her lip to the inked shaft.
“One,” he said, like he was keeping count. His cock stood wet and angry in the low light, tattoos shining with her spit. He had not cum. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Take the slacks off. I want to taste that pussy before we run out of dark.”
Linda’s hands shook on the zipper. She wriggled, kicking one heel off, dragging the slacks and underwear down one leg because that was all the space allowed.
Cool air hit her soaked cunt and she shivered.
Marc manhandled her with surprising care given the size of him, turning her so her back hit the opposite door, one thigh hooked over the headrest, the other splayed wide on the seat.
He folded down into the well of the floorboards as much as a man his height could and put his mouth on her without warning.
Hot. Wet. His tongue dragged through her folds and stabbed at her entrance like he had been thinking about it as long as she had.
She grabbed the headrest and the door handle and tried not to slam her head into the window.
He licked her like the olives had been practice, long flat strokes then a pointed flick on her clit that made her thighs jump.
The sound was obscene in the small car, wet and greedy.
She smelled herself, sharp and musky, mixed with the leather and his skin.
“Marc—fuck—”
He hummed against her cunt and pushed two fingers into her while he sucked her clit. The stretch pulled another moan out of her. She was loud. She did not care. His other hand pinned her hip so she could not squirm off his mouth. The ink on his shoulder flexed in the orange light as he worked.
Linda stared at the ceiling liner and then down at the dark head between her thighs, at the tattoos disappearing into the jeans still trapped at his thighs, at the wet shine on his chin when he came up for air just long enough to say,
“You taste like you’ve been thinking about this since the first drink.”
Then he went back down and she stopped having words.
He did not rush. He ate her with the same patience he used to close the drawer, building her second orgasm in layers: tongue, fingers curling, the scrape of his stubble on her inner thigh.
Her slacks hung off one ankle. One heel was still on.
The whole scene was cramped and inelegant and the most precise thing that had happened to her body in years.
When she came the second time she did it with his name in her mouth and her nails in his hair, pussy clamping on his fingers, wet enough that she heard it. He licked her through the shaking and only lifted his head when she tugged.
His cock was still hard, still painted with ink and spit, a fresh bead at the slit. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and the swallow tattoo there came away glossy.
“We are not done,” he said. “But if I fuck you in this position I am going to hit my head on the roof and I want to last.”
Linda’s laugh was wrecked. She reached for him anyway, fingers wrapping the tattooed shaft, smearing her own wetness from his hand onto the thorns.
“Back seat’s bigger if we turn,” she said. “And I am not getting dressed.”
Marc looked at her spread out in her own car, blouse shoved up, slacks wrecked, cunt flushed and shining, and nodded once.
“Then move.”
They twisted like people who had never practiced this.