I WANT the Bartender Explicit Erotica #5
Linda kept her eyes forward and her fingers moving and felt powerful in a way her job title had never delivered.
“Fourteenth is high enough that the elevator takes a minute,” she said. “If you walk through my lobby like that, the night man will have a story.”
“Jacket.” He reached into the back without looking, found it, dropped it over his lap. The cover was a joke. The shape of him still lifted the fabric. “You going to be able to walk?”
“I paid for these slacks. They will survive the lobby. I might not.”
The building came up on the left, glass and pale stone, the kind of entrance that smelled like money even from the curb.
She pulled into the underground and parked in her numbered space.
When she killed the engine the quiet rushed in.
Her hand was still on him. She gave one last stroke, firmer, and watched his throat work.
“Elevator,” she said. “If I stay in this car I am getting back in your lap.”
They got out. The garage here was cleaner than the last one, cameras pointed everywhere, which should have cooled her down and did not.
Marc held the jacket strategically. Linda walked a half step ahead so the cameras got her slacks and not the way she was still shining between the legs.
Her heels echoed. One of them was still slightly twisted from the back seat. She did not fix it.
The elevator arrived empty. Mirrors on three walls. She hit 14 and the doors shut them in with their own reflections. Marc looked like sin wearing a jacket. She looked like a woman who had been eaten out and fucked in a public garage and had not bothered to put her underwear back on.
He crowded her the second the car lurched upward. The jacket fell. His cock pressed against her hip, hot even through slacks. His mouth found the spot under her ear.
“You smell like my mouth and your cunt,” he said. “I am going to wreck that expensive bed.”
Linda gripped the rail. “Good.”
His hand slid down the front of her slacks. Two fingers pushed between her folds like they belonged there. She was so wet the slide was instant. He rubbed her clit once, twice, and she jerked, a helpless sound bouncing off the mirrors.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “There are cameras in these cars.”
“Then be still.” He did not take his hand out. He just held her, two fingers resting inside the lips of her pussy, not moving, a claim. The floors ticked by. 8. 9. She clenched around nothing and felt his fingers get wetter. 11. His cock twitched against her hip. 13.
Ding.
He pulled his hand out as the doors opened and sucked his fingers clean in the hallway like they had all the time in the world.
Linda’s keys shook in her lock. The apartment smelled like the diffuser she paid too much for, fig and something woodsy, a clean expensive lie over what they were about to do to the place.
She got the door open. Marc followed her in and kicked it shut with his heel. The city glittered through the wall of windows. Her couch cost more than his monthly rent and she did not care. She dropped her bag. He dropped the jacket.
They looked at each other in the real light for the first time all night.
Every tattoo showed. Throat. Chest. The script on his ribs. The chain toward his hip. And below, where his jeans still hung open, the thorned shaft of his cock standing wet and dark, the ink unmistakable now, no garage murk to soften it.
Linda’s mouth went dry.
“Lights on,” he said. “You wanted to see it. Come here and look before I put it back in you.”
She crossed the rug on unsteady legs. Close enough to map him. Close enough to put her fingers on the date under the compass and the leaves wrapped around his cock and the places the needle had gone that no customer was supposed to know about.
“Bedroom is left,” she said. “Or the window. Or the counter. I stopped having a preference somewhere around the second time you made me cum in that car.”
Marc’s smile was small and wrecked. He reached for the buttons of her blouse.
“We will use all of them.”
The blouse came apart under Marc’s fingers one button at a time.
He did not rush it. Linda stood in the middle of her own living room and let him, city light laying bars of white across his inked chest and the wet shine still on his cock.
When the silk slid off her shoulders the air-conditioning found her nipples and pulled them tight.
He looked at her the way he had looked at a rare bottle: inventory first, hunger second.
“Turn around.”
She did. His mouth landed on the nape of her neck, then lower, following her spine with an open kiss that left a cooling trail.
Hands at her hips. Slacks shoved down. She stepped out of them and the ruined underwear she had never put back on.
Barefoot on her own rug, 34 years old, dripping onto wool that cost more than a weekend in another city.
Marc knelt.
In the light she could see everything the garage had only suggested.
Ink wrapped his shoulders and dove down both biceps.
A second bird, smaller, sat under his left scapula.
The chain on his hip continued in a fine black line toward the cleft of his ass.
She reached back blindly and found his hair while he put his mouth on her from behind, tongue dragging through her soaked folds like he had not already done this an hour ago.
The angle was filthy. She braced on the back of the sofa and pushed her ass toward his face.
He spread her with both thumbs and licked from clit to asshole in one slow pass that made her knees dip.
The sound was wetter in the quiet apartment than it had been in the car.
She could hear how swollen she was. She could smell herself over the fig diffuser, sharp and shameless.
“Sink,” she managed. “If I stand here I am going to fall on the furniture.”
He rose, wiped his mouth with the inside of his wrist, and followed her into the kitchen.
White stone, under-cabinet lights, a window over the basin that looked at other people’s windows.
Linda gripped the edge of the counter and hopped up.
Cold on her ass. She spread her knees and Marc stepped between them like the space had been measured for him.
He went to his knees again on her kitchen tile and buried his face in her cunt.
No teasing this time. He sucked her clit between his lips and flicked it with a pointed tongue while two fingers worked into her, curling, looking for the spot that had made her shake in the back seat.
He found it on the second crook. Linda’s head dropped back.
Her heel drummed the cabinet. Water from an earlier glass sat forgotten by her wrist and she knocked it, a thin splash across stone and onto his shoulder, running down a wing tattoo in a rivulet he ignored.
“Fuck—right there—”
He hummed into her pussy and the vibration tipped her. She came on his mouth with her thighs clamped around his ears, one hand in his hair, the other leaving a streak through the spilled water. He kept licking until she twitched away, oversensitive, a broken laugh in her throat.
Marc stood. His chin was glossy. His cock stood out of his open jeans, the thorn work vivid under the kitchen LEDs, a thick vein running through the leaves, the head dark and leaking a thread that had reached the ink at the base.
Linda stared at it the way she had in the car, except now there was no excuse of shadows.
She pushed him back a step, slid off the counter, and went to her knees on her own clean tile.
The floor was hard. She did not care. She took him into her mouth and the taste of her own cunt was all over him, mixed with the salt of his precum.
She sucked him messy on purpose, spit running down the tattooed shaft onto her fist, looking up so he could see what the regular from the third stool looked like with a bartender’s cock stretching her lips.
Marc’s hand settled on the back of her head. Not forcing. Anchoring. “Deeper. You can. You did it in the car with less room.”
She took him deeper. The head bumped her throat. She gagged, pulled off, spit on the thorns, and went back down. His groan bounced off the stone. She cupped his balls and felt them draw up, tight, and still he did not spill. The restraint in his thighs made her pussy clench around nothing.
She pulled off with a string of spit connecting her bottom lip to the slit.
“Shower,” she said. “I want the rest of the ink wet.”
Her bathroom was all glass and matte black fixtures.
She started the water hotter than she usually used.
Steam rolled. They stripped the last of it—his jeans, her blouse already gone—and stepped in.
Water sheeted off the bird on his chest, darkened every line, ran in channels down the script on his ribs and over the compass on his arm.
Linda put both hands on him and followed the water with her mouth.
Collarbone. The date under the compass. The chain at his hip.
She turned him and licked the small bird on his shoulder blade while the spray hit her back.
Marc boxed her against the tile. Cold ceramic, hot water, his cock trapped between her belly and his.
He lifted one of her thighs and rubbed the tattooed shaft through her folds, not entering, just sliding, the raised ink catching her clit on every pass.
She dug her nails into the wet muscle of his ass.
“In me.”
“Not yet.” He bit the wet skin where her neck met her shoulder. “I want you on the bed when I fuck you this time. I want your sheets to smell like this. I want to see your face when you feel the ink drag inside you with the lights on.”
She almost argued. Then his fingers found her clit again under the water and the argument died.
He rubbed her in tight circles until her standing leg shook and she came a fifth time—or sixth, she had lost the count between the car and the kitchen—clinging to him, water in her mouth, a helpless noise echoing off glass.
He shut the water off before she could slide to the floor. Towels. He dried her with more care than the night had earned, then himself, the towel tenting obscenely over a cock that had been hard since the garage and had still not given up.
They left wet footprints on her hardwood.
The bedroom faced the same glittering grid as the living room.
King bed, white linen, a throw she was about to ruin.