The air in the bar was thick with the scent of stale beer, cheap whiskey, and the faint citrus tang of the disinfectant I’d used to wipe down the counter an hour ago. I wasn’t supposed to be here. The "Closed" sign was flipped, the lights dimmed to a husky amber, and the only sound was the low hum of the cooler. But I was here, waiting. The door to my bar, The Rusty Nail, was locked, but the back door to my apartment—and the adjoining wall we shared—was always open for her.
Her name was Elena. She lived in the unit next to mine, a tidy little box of a place that smelled like lavender and old books. She was married to a man named David, a regional sales manager who was often away. I knew his schedule better than I knew my own liquor inventory. Mondays and Thursdays, he was in Chicago. Wednesdays, he had late meetings in the city. Fridays, he golfed until sundown. And every night he was gone, she found her way to me.
Tonight, it was a Thursday. The clock above the bar read 11:47 PM. My hands were dry from washing glasses, and I wiped them on my apron, a nervous habit I couldn’t shake. I heard the soft click of her door opening next door, followed by the gentle pad of her footsteps on the wooden floor of the hallway. Then, the three soft knocks on the door that connects the bar’s storage room to the back hallway—the one I’d disguised as a broken closet.
I slid off my stool, my heart already a heavy, insistent drum against my ribs. I moved to the back, unlocked the bolt, and pulled the heavy oak door open.
She stood there, a vision in the dim light. She wore a simple silk robe, deep burgundy, tied loosely at the waist. Her dark hair was tousled, falling in waves over her shoulders. Her eyes, the color of honey in a low light, met mine. She didn’t smile. She never smiled when she came in. It was a solemn ritual between us, a shared understanding of the game we played.
“You’re late,” I said, my voice a low rasp.
“He called,” she said, stepping past me into the storage room. The scent of her—jasmine and a hint of something warmer, like sandalwood—filled the space. “Had to wait until he fell asleep on the couch.”
I closed the door, the lock clicking home with a definitive sound that sealed us in our world. The storage room was cluttered with boxes of gin, tequila, and wine, but I’d cleared a small path to the main bar. I didn’t lead her there. Instead, I took her hand, my fingers wrapping around her slender wrist. Her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
“Come on,” I said, pulling her past the rows of bottles, through the beaded curtain that separated the back from the main floor. The bar was a cocoon of shadows and muted gold. I gestured to a stool, but she shook her head.
“Not tonight,” she whispered. “I don’t want to sit.”
I understood. Some nights she wanted the distance, the pretext of a customer and a bartender. Tonight, she wanted the raw, unfiltered reality of us.
I moved behind the bar, my domain. She leaned against the counter, her hips pressing into the aged wood. I poured two fingers of a single malt scotch, my favorite, and slid it toward her. She took it, her lips parting as she drank, the liquid catching the light. A single drop lingered on her lower lip, and I watched it, mesmerized.
“Thirsty?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
“Desperate,” she corrected, setting the glass down.
I reached out, my thumb brushing away that drop of scotch. She gasped, the sound small and sharp in the silence. My hand slid from her lip down to the curve of her jaw, tilting her face up. Her eyes were wide, dark, hungry.
“Every time you walk through that door,” I said, my thumb tracing the line of her throat, “you take a piece of me with you when you leave.”
“I know,” she breathed. “That’s why I keep coming back.”
I leaned in, my mouth hovering over hers, not quite touching. The tension between us was a physical thing, a taut wire that hummed with electricity. I could feel the heat radiating off her skin, smell the faint trace of her shampoo, the lingering scent of her husband’s cologne on her robe. That last detail should have cooled me, but it only sharpened the edge. She was forbidden, a stolen treasure, and that made every touch more incendiary.
I closed the distance, my lips claiming hers. It was not gentle. It was a collision, a desperate, sloppy meeting of mouths. Her hands came up, fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer. The bar counter dug into my hips, but I didn’t feel it. I only felt her—the softness of her lips, the insistent press of her tongue against mine, the small, desperate sounds she made in the back of her throat.
I broke the kiss, breathing hard. “I need to taste you.”
She didn’t answer with words. She reached for the tie of her robe, pulling it loose with a swift, practiced motion. The silk parted, revealing the pale curve of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach. She wore nothing underneath. The dim light painted her in shades of ivory and shadow.
I traced a path from her collarbone down to her navel with the tips of my fingers, my touch featherlight. She shivered, her nipples tightening into hard peaks. I leaned in, my tongue flicking across one, tasting the salt of her skin. She moaned, her head falling back as her fingers tangled in my hair.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
I didn’t. I took her nipple into my mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, my teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. Her hips bucked against the counter, a needy, instinctive motion. I moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention, my hand sliding down her belly, between her legs.
She was slick, wet, ready. My fingers slipped through her folds, finding the hard nub of her clit, and she cried out, a sharp, cut-off sound. I circled it slowly, deliberately, watching her face contort with pleasure.
“You’re so wet,” I murmured against her skin.
“For you,” she gasped. “Always for you.”
I slid a finger inside her, then another, feeling her inner walls clench around me. She was tight, hot, and she rode my hand with a rhythm that was ancient and primal. My thumb continued its work on her clit, pressing and circling, until her breath hitched and her body went rigid.
“I’m close,” she whispered, her voice strained.
“Not yet,” I said, pulling my hand away. She whimpered in protest, but I silenced her with a kiss. “I want to watch you come on my cock.”
I stepped back, unbuckling my belt, unbuttoning my jeans. She watched me, her eyes dark and greedy. I pushed my pants and boxers down just enough, my erection springing free, thick and aching. She licked her lips, and the sight nearly undid me.
I lifted her onto the bar, the wood cool against her bare thighs. She spread her legs wide, an invitation, a demand. I stepped between them, the head of my cock nudging at her entrance. We were both trembling.
“Look at me,” I ordered.
Her eyes locked onto mine.
I pushed inside.
The sensation was blinding—slick heat, tight walls, the perfect, torturous friction. She arched into me, her nails digging into my shoulders as I buried myself to the hilt. We stayed there for a moment, connected, breathing as one.
Then I began to move.
Slow, deep strokes at first, each one pulling a gasp from her lips. I watched her breasts bounce with every thrust, her head thrown back, her throat exposed. I leaned in, my mouth finding that delicate curve of her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. She didn’t protest. She wanted the evidence.
“Faster,” she begged.
I obliged, gripping her hips, driving into her with a rhythm that grew more frantic. The bar creaked beneath us, the bottles on the shelf behind me rattling in time with our motion. The only other sounds were her moans, my grunts, the wet, lewd sound of our bodies meeting.
Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper. I felt her climax building, the tension in her legs, the flutter of her walls around me.
“Now,” I grunted. “Come for me now.”
She shattered. Her body convulsed, a raw, guttural cry tearing from her throat as she came undone around me. The sensation was too much. I followed her over the edge, my own release hot and violent, pumping into her as I buried my face in her shoulder, muffling my groan.
We stayed locked together, panting, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat. Slowly, I pulled out, and she slid off the bar, her legs unsteady. I grabbed a clean towel from under the counter and handed it to her. She cleaned herself with quiet, practiced movements. The silence was no longer charged; it was a soft, shared blanket.
She tied her robe back on, her fingers trembling. I zipped up my jeans, the spell already beginning to fade.
“Same time next week?” I asked, the question a formality.
She nodded, a sad, fleeting smile on her lips. “If he’s away.”
I watched her walk back to the storage room, through the beaded curtain, her silhouette disappearing into the dark. The door clicked shut behind her. I was alone again.
I poured myself the rest of the scotch, threw it back, and started washing the glasses. The night was over, but the ache of her absence was just beginning.
