Misbehaving
The restaurant is all low light and velvet corner couches. Vinyl, small plates and overpriced gin cocktails. We’re buzzing tonight. The air is thick with expensive perfume and dark jazz. I’m half-listening to my co-worker, while watching the bartender’s muscles ripple beneath his shirt.
I’ve been wet for what feels like hours, chasing the maddening friction of my pussy under my thong. Watching him smile at gorgeous women, and eye-fuck my ass. He leans over the bar to hear a woman in a purple mini-dress order a pornstar martini. A small frown creases his brows before he breaks into a wolfish grin. My stomach clenches. I force myself to focus on the smoky blue eyeshadow and beaming face of my co-worker.
“Oh, welcome back, beautiful,” he says, his work shirt already half unbuttoned an hour before close. Freshly twenty-two, with the divine ability to juggle hospitality hours and a roster of lovers, as well as an accounting degree. “I won’t ask where your head has been.”
He makes eyes over at the bar and I feel my face flush.
“Just supervising my staff,” I say with a smile. “What’s up?”
“Can I borrow your car to move a few boxes out of res tomorrow?” he says, clearly not for the first time. He places a hand on his heart. “Promise no drinking and driving.”
Our restaurant closes at 10 pm, and he’ll be heading somewhere cooler, with prettier people and louder music. He’ll have the kind of night where he gets drunk on Jägermeister and still shows up to his 9 am lecture. Meanwhile, I’ll probably have a hangover from the tequila shots I had an hour ago.
“Sure,” I say, an itch starting in my chest. “You know what, take it tonight.”
My hips sway more than usual as I walk over to the bar. My dress is a lush black button-up, with puffed sleeves at the shoulders and a respectable neckline. Work-appropriate, while emphasising my waist and hugging my breasts.
“Hey,” I say, feigning nonchalance, my heart beating like a teenager with a crush. He looks up from the drink he’s pouring.
“Hey, boss,” he says, placing a stick of olives over the silvery cocktail, and gently sliding it over to the gorgeous blonde gazing at him beneath mascarad black lashes.
He knows how to work his ‘Rebel Without a Cause’ charm. Deep voice and dark blue eyes. A farm boy with the gleam of old Hollywood. His biceps bulge beneath a white T-shirt, and his vintage denim hangs dangerously low. He’d come on as an expert mixologist before transitioning into a bit of everything else. I knew from the moment we met that, eventually, we’d collide. And I was tired of waiting.
He faces me, crossing his arms over the bar so that his muscles press against his chest, hard and gleaming under the warm lights. An ache in my lower belly makes me clench my thighs.
“What can I do for you?” he says to me, his voice pitched low so that I have to lean in to hear him over the music. My tongue flicks out to lick my bottom lip, and he catches it with his eyes. A muscle twitches below his brow, and he swallows hard.
“Give me a ride home tonight?” I say. The corner of his mouth tilts up to one side, deliciously crooked.
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