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Everyone could brag about that one thing they had in their life that made the days worth getting up and living for.

 

You had Will.

 

Beautiful, handsome and non-cliched, uncomplicated single man Will. A dream with thick wavy hair and a dazzling set of green eyes. And a smile that made your heartbeat kick loud. Dishy, as your grandma would say. He was dishy by all accounts.

 

You’d met on a dating app one dismal rainy Tuesday, and the proverbial sparks had flown- so to speak. You’d taken the plunge to meet up after some flirty texts exchanged back and forth. Nothing too outrageous. You weren’t on tinder looking for a dick to ride on for a couple hours. You had hoped it would turn into more. More dates, more romance, possibly.

 

You met up in poky Italian place for the first date. Twinkle light filled window at the front twined on box topiary trees. The paper table cloth is scratchy and thin under your hands as you drank your stubby little glass of house red, leaving your sticky red lipstick on the rim, as your mind and stomach whirled in nervous circles. Twining into knots. You were unfashionably sadly early. Sat there in your best push up bra and flirty date dress and heels.

 

He’d turned up in a deep blue jumper and nice jeans. All smiles and shiny hair and apologies for the traffic keeping him from you. You gave him a wobbly smile, tongue chalky from nibbling on breadsticks as you waited to abate your squirming nerves.

 

He made you laugh. He was good at that. You ended the night very drunk on more house red and during the after dinner coffee and biscotti, he reaches over the  postage stamp sized table and laced his fingers through yours and your skin simply hummed with desire for him. It had been a while since you’d gotten laid.

 

You and Will had sweet uncomplicated sex that night at his cosy apartment.

 

Missionary and he was fairly vanilla about it. You never could tell these days. Always the quiet ones who were liable about to whip out a gimp mask mid fuck. Or have a dear sweet old mother knock on his door, and wander in halfway through to complain about the noise.

 

Will wasn’t like that. This sex was urgent and passionate. Nothing too wild. Love drunk on red wine kisses and tasting the latte he had on his tongue. Swapping sloppy lazy kisses. It had been nice to fall asleep after he fucked you to a mildly satisfying orgasm.

 

Soft cotton sheets the colour of caramel, soft as caramel, rumpled at your back as he tugged down the cup of the black lace bra you brought especially for this date, and latched his fingers around your nipple as he drove himself deeper in you. A good downwards thrust that made your back arch and your tits jolt as you dug your nails into his back. Sheets clasping your sweaty knees and back as he took you.

 

Your second date was to the movies, he brought you popcorn and red vines and snuck his hand between your legs halfway through the film. Teasing your clit in the dark under your panties til you came for him. Messily kissing him. Butter on his tongue as he made you cum.

 

After the movie finished you dragged him into the dingy restroom and had a hard quickie knocking thrusts up against a hand drier. Cold tiles slippery at your back and nibbling on his ear as he pumped inside you.

 

You had fun. You and Will. You’d even started to consider seeing each other more in the week rather than just weekend dates.

 

Two weeks later and you had a date to go to his place where he’d cook dinner.

 

You weren’t a rude guest. You bought a bottle. Shaved your legs. Did sultry Smokey eye makeup. You stood outside his apartment holding a box with a pie you went to pick up from Figaro’s bakery. The one you both claimed to love on Vermont Avenue. Cherry.

 

You put on a slinky sexy dress under a leather jacket with murderous heels on your feet. Hopefully you’d be toeing those shoes off fairly soon. You bought a new pair of sexy silk panties for heavens sake-

 

He didn’t give you a key.

 

When you buzzed, there was no answer. There were no lights on that you could see. You waited ten minutes and then twenty. Half an hour in and your feet were throbbing raw from standing so long and you were approaching freezing.

 

A message blared for attention on your phone where it lay in your cold leather jacket pocket. You opened the phone with cold fingers and fucking numb anger.

 

Will. Perfect, sweet, uncomplicated Will with his sexy green eyes and his too perfect swimmers body, had been stringing you along for sex whilst his long term fiancée had been out the country for work.

 

distraction. Nothing serious. Don’t be mad- babe. We had a good time.”

 

You threw the cherry pie straight into the trash can outside his apartment. The wine too. Though you’d been tempted to pour it all over his doorstep or chuck it through his window. Money wasted on another worthless waste of skin.

 

It’s so cold out you can’t tell as you walk along if your face is just frozen. Or if the tears of pure hatred and anger that are sliding down is the thing making your cheeks burn. You tuck your trembling fingers in your cold pockets and just walk.

 

Walk down the cracked tarmac streets listening to your heels clack. Your feet wince with every painstaking step.

 

It starts to rain. Brilliant. Cold striking wet spitting down at you in your misery.

 

You’ll get a cab. But catching one as they roar by in the rain is near impossible. you want a goddamn drink to get this day dead and buried in your head. Get your anger off your back. Going to a liquor store and buying a bottle of vodka in a paper bag take home and cry into whilst swigging it down is not something you can bare. Too sad. Too depressing.

 

You need a place with scotch. Cold scotch. A barstool or a booth where you can sit undisturbed for three hours and put a sizeable dent in this months wage packet. Drink a whiskey sized hole of sadness in your gut.

 

You needed a bar; and eventually you find one.

 

Seedy. Dirty and probably still stocks Jim Beam.

 

This was possibly the dingiest most cheap place within walking distance from his stupid fucking apartment. Theres no hiding it. It is awful. Glass beer bottles smashed up on the gritty weed and cigarette butt strewn tarmac by the door.

 

Inside was untouched since, you guessed, 1987. All red neon lights and tacky old pine walls that were all chipped and scratched. The floor is grubby white and black lino tiles. The red bar stools with holes in are mended with duck tape. The bar top is so worn with age. Red bumpy glasses with flickering candles in them sat on the grubby wood surface. The music in the place is thundering loud and it’s the worst of soft rock dredged up and on repeat. Tinny and brittle in the air. That shitty REO Speedwagon song about keeping on loving.

 

The decor makes you want to groan. The music makes you roll your eyes and scoff. But even if this dive of a bar is the worst parts of the eighties regurgitated and aged poorly, you still want that fucking drink. Need that fucking drink- cold whiskey or sharp vodka.

 

The only thing that does look inviting is the wall of mirrors behind the bar with wood shelves that every conceivable brand of liquor bottle is stood on. That does look appealing right now. The place is not that busy yet.

 

A few guys slumped over the bar nursing a glass of whiskey or a bottle. Some play pool in the corner. Sharp lash of billiard balls every now and then hitting the air. Broad tall guys wearing cheap jeans and heavy duty boots holding the queues. They’re even smoking inside too. Cause apparently this place is so far lodged in the past smoking laws aren’t even applicable.

 

You trudge past the meagre bustle of people gathered around the bar. Laughing and stood talking. You dodge elbows and too loud laughter. Throwing your dripping leather jacket off and hanging it on the back of the dirty red stool. You slide up onto it and cross your legs. Waiting to be served. Unlinking your small bag strap off from hugging around your chest.

 

You want to punch someone. A real nose breaking or jaw clacking punch. Either that or you just need someone who will fuck you into the next dimension tonight. But, you’re guessing you won’t find your next quality dick appointment in a crummy dump like this-

 

Any other day you’d care that your red dress was patchy wet and the plunge bra you wore was damp too from the rain. The fact that your prominent cleavage was now both wet and on display. You couldn’t care less. Didn’t care if it would attract the seedy wolves who frequented this place.

 

You watched as a couple of guys around the bar clocked you as you sat down. Dragging swimming drunk eyes over you. Up and down.

 

You dared them to try it on with the current volcanic mood of sheer anger and blinding annoyance simmering in your stomach.

 

You needed whiskey or bourbon or both. A lot. And soon.

 

You flicked your dry-sort-of-wet bangs off your forehead as you fiddle with the contents of your small bag. Finding your cash. The strip of durex condoms you tucked in there are shiny and blue. And now they’re laughing at you. Bitterly so. Mocking. Smug little square bastards. Your mood fully sours; kicked to the goddamn sexless curb.

 

You’re so caught in your miserable not even face to face break up with Will, that you don’t see the bartender appear till you see two huge manly hands bracing on the scratched walnut bar in front of you.

 

There are rings slotted on his long somewhat agile fingers. Lazy resting on the beer taps behind the walnut stained very scuffed bar-top. These hands are weathered and manly and god, they’re big.

 

On one thick wrist theres a leather studded bracelet. Resting next to a frayed and time bleached braid of leather knotted around said wrist. Scuffed cheap silver rings around fingers on both hands. Hands that are rudely right up all in your personal space the other side of the bar counter; all signs of his dress sense so far point toward douche-bag material.

 

These wrists are big and chunky and taper into strong fairly tanned forearms that disappear into the rolled cuffs of a very old blue and grey plaid shirt that looks like it’s been washed only a few million times and then beaten with rocks. By apes.

 

There’s a silver necklace with a dog tag hanging off it. Laying in the centre of a sparsely hairy chest. Tag cradled in between the divots of two well-defined pecs, peeking out the scooped neckline of a grey tee.

 

You flick your eyes up. Even more up. This guy was tall. You land your gaze on his face, and you’re amazed to find that actually it’s a fairly good looking one at that. You double take at it for a second.

 

Strong brows and eyes dark and deep enough to dive in. A rough scratch of a beard all over his handsome jaw and goatee patch under his cocky smirking lips - a soul patch isn’t that what they called it? He had a black beanie hat pulled snugly over his head. A cigarette tucked behind his ear and you can make out the tattered shape of a box of cigs in the sagging front pocket of his plaid.

 

Your uterus does notice me cartwheels that under that whole scruffy dude-bro image he’s actually really fucking pretty in a manly-rugged kind of way. Rough around the edges. You pay your traitorous body no attention whatsoever.

 

He’s broad and dark and there’s something about his smile that is cocky and, well-

 

Downright infuriating .

 

“What can I get you?” He drawls. His voice is deep too. Steady. Heavy as rolling slow honey. He looks too far playful to match your current hellish frame of mind. He slouches on the beer taps like he lives there.

 

You’re well aware his eyes spent 90% of his sentence lingering in your sodden cleavage. Your frown and embittered gaze makes his smile widen. You sigh and that makes your chest swell which is also something he does not miss.

 

“Bourbon.” You grumpily mumble. Followed by a flat “Lots.”

 

Your sour mood doesn’t deter him. It hooks a curling grin at his lips instead. He curls closer. Takes his arms off the taps. Leans one elbow flat on the bar. Comes just a fraction closer. A pure drift of scent comes your way. He smells like sweat - good clean salty sweat.  Pure male. Mixed with stale frothy beer, and sharp musky cigarettes.

 

"Bourbon huh?” His eyes scan you. Roving. Assessing. He definitely loses his eyes for a few seconds in your tits. Again.

 

“I would've picked you for a Piña Colada type girl. How you want your lots of bourbon, Princess? Neat, up.......?" He asks.

 

“On the rocks.” You grumble. Slinging shut the zip on your bag and twisting around to hook it on the back of your bar stool.

 

His eyes watch the turning of your body even as he walked away to fetch a bottle and a glass.

 

“Bulleit?” Cocky guy asks. Stood by all the whiskey bottles.

 

“As long as you give me one large enough to sink the titanic, that’s fine by me.” You add in a sickly smile. Snapping right back to your corrosive attitude afterward.

 

He reaches up to one of the shelves and whisks a rounded bottle down. Casually throwing ice into a tumbler and splashing the sweet dry bourbon over it. Three fingers maybe more. You didn’t think this was the kinda place to measure out liquor. And he didn’t. For that you were thankful.

 

He saunters slowly back over with your drink and slides it across. You waste no time snatching it up and drinking. Slapping your dollar bills down on the bar and nudging it in his general direction.

 

You toss it back quick and the first taste stings your mouth. You breathe through the sweet of oaky vanilla and rye ripping at your tongue. It aches your teeth with cold.

 

When you lower your glass after sinking a fair amount of it, you find he’s stood leaning against the opposite bar. He looks somewhere between amused and cocky. Crossing his arms with some cleaning rag in his hands. You absolutely do not pay attention to the way his forearms bulge with muscles and veins as he does it.

 

You lower your drink. Your brows pull together in a frown.

 

“Don’t you have a bar to tend?” You ask. Tone dripping with sarcasm and disdain.

 

“TV’s broken in here. Last night some asshole decided to put a pool queue through it. I’m starved for entertainment right now.” He quips back. Passing the rag around the rim of a stout wine glass.

 

Oh, how refreshing. Funny and creepy.”

 

This earns you a sidewards curl of a smirk off him.

 

“So-“ He asks.

 

So?” You repeat. Shaking your head. Twirling your glass on the bar-top in your hand. Feeling the ice numb cold at your fingertips.

 

“Were you stood up, dumped? Or?” He shrugs. Tries to makes the nosy enquiry sound casual. Doesn’t take his eyes off yours as he slouches upright, one trim snake hip resting on the bar.

 

His grey tee lifts up at the side and you can see the plain strap of a very worn brown leather belt resting in his jean loops. A small smooth patch of a tanned hip emerges over the waistband. A small flying eagle tattoo etched into the skin.

 

You beg your uterus for mercy. He’s a walking cliché of a rebound. 

 

You take another sip of your bourbon. A large one. Matter of fact you chuck the whole thing back. The ice clunks and presses cold at your lips. Smearing your lipstick. Love bite red.

 

“Another-“ You croak when you swallow the cold whiskey.

 

“Dumped by your boyfriend?” He persisted. Guessing.

 

You give him a sharp look. Your sharpest.

 

“None of your business is the term I think I’d like to use.” You reaffirm as you push the glass back over in his direction.

 

“I see all sorts of folk who come to drink here-“ He starts. “I’m pretty good at reading most of them.” He says. He sways away to slot a glass on a shelf under the bar.

 

“So you read people. You have eyes. Congratulations.” You dish out. He moves back to you and calmly gathers up your glass. Tips away the used ice and steps away to get you a refill.

 

He puts his back to you and, ashamedly, you look. Beneath very worn jeans you think you can spy the solid frame of a pert ass. A nice ass. The seams of the jeans are worn nearly white with age. There’s a threadbare patch worn into the corner side of one of the back pockets.

 

“I have experience.” He leers at you in the mirror in front of him. In-between the shelves and bottles of vodka you see his dark eyes sparkle at you. The tilt of his smirk as he pours you another three fingers of bourbon over ice.

 

“And in that experience, a girl like you don’t put on a low cut dress, and heels like that, unless she’s trying to impress a potential fuck or a date.” He assesses as he wanders back over with your drink. Taking all the time in the world. He slides it across the bar to you. His rings clack on the glass.

 

He stays close too. Elbows on the bar as he leans over. His hips dipping back as he bends in half to rest near you. Now he’s - unfortunately - closer, you can smell the sweet tinge of liquor on his breath. Something with a little spice to it. Whiskey maybe. Malty and rich.

 

“Now you’re in here. At half ten at night. In a just delightful mood. Drinking your body weight in bourbon. It’s not hard to guess what might’ve happened to make you drown your sorrows.” He infers.

 

God help you. You wanna rip his cocky smile off with your nails. You take your drink and pluck it out of this guys annoying reach.

 

“Because of course, I wore this dress for a man. A woman can never ever dress up for herself. Only for the benefit of gaining a man’s attention.” You spit back at him. Plenty of fire resting on your love bite lips.

 

He smiles at your challenging words. You try so hard not let your stomach swoop giddy at his easy sexy laugh.

 

“Tell me I’m wrong-“ He dares. Looking like butter wouldn’t melt.

 

“You don’t know I’m attracted to men.” You try and argue a point. A vicious point. You crush your argument into a cutting diamond and hurl it at him, meanly. Hoping it tears skin.

 

“You stared at my ass for a good ten seconds when I turned around to get you a refill.” He pointed out. You’d taken every care not to be glaringly obvious but he’d clocked your eyes lingering on him in the mirrors reflection.

 

You grind your teeth and sip.

 

If you don’t, you’re sure you’ll end up throwing it in his face and that wouldn’t be fair on the whiskey. To end up dripping over this assholes stupidly attractive and cocky face.

 

You conceded to one small corner of defeat. “It was supposed to be a romantic date.”

 

His victory smile is nearly too annoying to bear.

 

“Princess. I saw you shove a strip of condoms deep down in your purse when you got in here. Dick appointment, with a guy, gone sour.” He predicts correctly.

 

You’re a fusion of annoyed and a plume of ember hot suddenly fills your cheeks.

 

“You wanted to get laid.” He picks out easily. Digging right down to the exposed nerve root, the bedrock, of your annoyance - and subsequent bout of insobriety.

 

You don’t know why it’s annoying that he knows this about you.

 

“I wanted a decently nice man in my life who could maintain sexual interest in me for long enough to make me cum for a change, and hasn’t fucked his way through entire dating apps. There aren’t many of them around.” You glare pointedly at him. Letting him know his annoying chirpy mood was noted.

 

“Instead tonight I got dumped via text by a cheating dick whose fiancée had left the country for five damn seconds.” You angrily told him.

 

You’d gotten invested. Again. Dared to sink your heart into thinking about some sort of nice relationship. Again. And now here you were- bottoming out on booze in a filthy pit.

 

You take a deep sigh and inhale some more cold liquor. Sinking it to your warming stomach. Trail of fire and rye down your throat. The tinny music still thuds here. Now it’s a twanging country classic guitar as some throaty guy sings about pretty young things going dancing in the rain.

 

“He sounds like a shallow little bitch.” He drawls out to you honestly. Humour lilting his voice.

 

“That’s the first nice thing that’s crossed your annoying mouth.” You point out as you tip back more booze. Heat and ice. Another glass gone. You slide the empty thing away. He raises one brow and you dagger a look into him.

 

“Keep em’ coming.” You say grumpily with iced numb lips. You weren’t even savouring the taste. You had a mouthful of razors and unkind things to say tonight.

 

You just wanted to wash away the day. And you’d start by drowning your insides beyond reckoning. Your head is starting to fuzz at the corners. Slow syrup heat of intoxication sliding into your arms and legs.

 

He takes the glass and does his job. You sit and stew. Picking at worn bare patches of the bar top with your fingernails. Side of your head cradled in one hand. Fingers curled in your dampish hair. Elbow on the bar.

 

“I pity the poor woman who shackled herself to him.” You mumble, seemingly to yourself. But you somehow figure out that, by now, he’s nosy and irritating enough to be listening.

 

“Engagements aren’t final, Princess.” He offers.

 

“Ties like that aren’t good for shit. Everyone fusses about labels and what it all means and don’t concentrate on the shit that really matters-“ He says as he reached for half full Budweiser bottle and lifted it to his lips taking back a long swig. Swilling it back in his mouth and swallowing it down. Perk of the job.

 

You watch the line of his throat as he drinks. That too covered in a dark scratch of stubble. You tore your eyes off him. Thighs clenching together in your seat as a swell of arousal burst across your thighs imagining that chin scraping along your plushy inner thigh.

 

“I think I can take a wild stab at what you’re getting at.” You suppose to him and he grins. It’s all cunning and wolf.

 

He licks his lips before nudging his plaid sleeves up his elbows a little more. He comes back over and he’s how he was before.

 

Elbows on the bar after he stands his beer down near you. Condensation off the glass already making a dark ring bleed to the wood. He’s so suave in his territory here, with three feet of wood counter separating the pair of you. You have a feeling he makes a habit of this. Chatting up his lady customers.

 

Beyond feeling horny for him you can’t say  you care overmuch about the man slut behaviour. At least he was upfront about it. Wears his desires on his fucking sleeve. A stimulating change.

 

Tonight you were done with romance. No strings. No feelings. Just hot, clawing, bed-destroying, hate sex with a tall infuriating bartender. You could go with that. Let him pound away the memory of the asshole who unceremoniously dumped you.

 

This guy was rugged and rough at the edges, yes. Exasperating to a great degree, fuck yes.

 

But you can’t deny how much you wanna rip that stupid beanie hat off his head and leave lipstick bite marks on his goddamn neck, as he fucks you into next Tuesday.

 

“No point in having a guy who can’t even make you cum.” He purrs that last word with purpose.

 

“I won’t argue that logic.” You can’t help it. Your smile tugs a little at the corner of your mouth. You swallow. It’s sticky and dry. You moisten your mouth with more bourbon. Can’t hurt-

 

You’re amazed to find that despite every scrap of rational brain cell arguing against the idea of this douche bag, that you’re unreservedly and shamelessly flirting with him.

 

Your last sober dregs of common sense was being shut down in a box and padlocked tight. Raw animal biology was the ultimate bitch here. That was the winning factor now.

 

“Then we’re on the same page.” He smarms.

 

“Stop it. Now you’re scaring me.” You comment ironically. Ice clunking in your glass as you sip a little more. You hold his eyes as you drink. They drop to your lips after you lower your glass.

 

“You’ve got the sharp wit thing down huh? Always something to say. It’s kinda annoying.” He smirks.

 

Oh, I see. Is it because other girls you usually chat up in here have all the personality and charisma of a wet cardboard box- I mean I’m just guessing here.“ You bat your lashes a couple times at him. Feigning Bambi like innocence.

 

He swigs his beer again. Almost empty. Only a dribble left sloshing at the bottom. When he lowers it, he is still smirking, but his jaw grits, and that’s how you know you’ve cottoned onto something.

 

“Perks of the job-“ You estimate in pure conjecture. “Giving pretty girls free drinks all night, and a little easy flirting and back and forth and a nice quick hard fuck in the men’s restroom to round off the evening.”

 

Now you know you’re just twisting the knife in the wound but atleast you’re smiling and flirting like a vixen as you do it. Pouring gasoline on a bonfire and smiling, wickedly, laughing at the flames as they rose.

 

“Nothing quick about the way I fuck.” He assures you, eyes salaciously dim. Licking over his bottom lip and tasting the frothy beer that lingered there.

 

You feel a bolt of longing bite at your blood hearing his voice deepen and his lips. How had you not noticed how plump and pink they are. Shiny with beer and now spit where he licked them. You shift a thigh lightly over the other where you’ve crossed your legs. Your panties now feel slick and sticky.

 

“The girls I usually talk to in here are at least charming. Thats not really your thing is it.” He digs plainly.

 

“The way you’ve been staring at my tits half the night tells me you don’t particularly care whether or not I’m charming.” You boldly counter. Resting one elbow flat on the counter. Coming closer where he’s bent over to talk to you. The scent of him engulfs you again. Male salty sweat and cigarettes. It shouldn’t turn you on-

 

But, fuck, how it does.

 

“You are so not my type, Princess.” He takes great delight telling you.

 

“You’re not mine either, asshole.” You tell him gladly. “And stop calling me Princess.” You bark with plenty of bite. It makes your skin crawl.

 

Very aware that now your heart is thumping stupidly loud at your neck and you can goddamn hear it. Even beyond Billy Idol calling out rebel yell over the tinny speakers.

 

“I’m sorry. Does it bother you, Princess?” He frowns lightly tilting his head. Throwing down the proverbial gauntlet.

 

God,  you’re so wet by now you could probably wring out these new silk panties. You must be staining the goddam shitty leather seat and you fucking hate it how worked up he’s gotten you.

 

“You’re such a douchebag.” You get out.

 

“A douchebag whose gonna be fucking you in about ten minutes.” He smirks easily. “See if I can’t dislodge that stick you got stuck up your tight ass.”

 

You scoff. Mouth flooded with whiskey taste. “ Please . You look like you couldn’t find my clit in the dark with a flashlight, two hands, and a map.” You snipe at him.

 

“Try me.” He dares with confidence that makes your knees wobble even though you’re seated. Both hands flat to the bar now. Spread before you. Like a stag rising to full height. Taking the brunt of a challenge.

 

He’s so close now, you can nearly taste the Budweiser on the warm pull of his breath. Beer and Marlboro reds. You can read the lust blowing his eyes wide. Thickly dark with it.

 

“Give me one good reason I should try you.” You snark at him with whiskey fire heating your tongue and your temper.

 

He cocks a hip against the bar. Leans over it to place his mouth very near you. His face slanted just off to the side. You can feel the heat of him drift over your damp hair.

 

“Because I’m gonna hate-fuck the shit outta you, Princess .” He promises. “And I know how bad you want it.”

 

You can’t help the shuddering breath that whirls through your chest. Choppy and fleeting. Your chest shrinks up and you think your lungs shrivel a little.

 

“I got my break in ten minutes. Parking lot. Green AMC ambassador.” He hushes softly. Eyes delving into yours. He either wants to shove your body in the trunk after murdering you, or he actually intends to fuck the living daylights out of you in his car. All bets are off.

 

A grizzled guy down further down the bar slurs out a name that you’d suspect might be his. Thumping is empty beer glass on the bar. Spitting sloshing the last dregs of it up into the air. You don’t catch his name over the thump of the music.

 

Either way, you’ll find out.

 

He tears his darkly glittering eyes from you and steps away. Waiting to see what you do. Storm off in those heels, or take him up on his offer. His expression is open. He’s trusting. Daring you to go.

He walks down the bar and tells the guy, obviously a regular, you hope, to ‘simmer the fuck down, will ya?’ To which the old boy replied ‘watch it, jerk off.’

 

You slip money on the bar for your drinks. Slip down the last splash of the watery bourbon, and gather your things. Herds of butterflies kick up to swarm in your stomach. The prospect of a illicit rendezvous in the back of a car has fissures of excitement and arousal ripping at your stomach.

 

You shrug your jacket on and walk slow across the bar. In no rush. Your steps are slow and purposeful. Powerful. Heels clacking the dim lino. You won’t give the asshole the satisfaction of seeing you run out the door. You’ll take your sweet time. You feel your bag bounce on your hip as you walk over the bar.

 

You flick poison eyes and your best corrosive expression off to the side as a new group of guys wolf whistle and call things at you as you casually walk to the door minding your own business.

 

Your sour look thrown at him, earns you a puckering kiss from the low form of pond life who called out to you.

 

You don’t see how it makes the asshole behind the bar smirk. You were such a loathsome bitch and he honestly felt how it made his spine shiver and his dick throb harder in his jeans.

 

You disappear out the door and round the building, past the crummy dark alley, flooded in sickly orange light thrown in pools all along the lot. Dizzy orange fizzes like dust across the asphalt where the light catches on the wet of rain that lay there. The cold night wraps around you, pricking like barbed wire. You ignore it, even if it’s dragging sharp pimples up your legs.

 

The lot is dismal to say the least. The entrance to it bottlenecks into the dismal stretch of tarmac. Chain link fences and broken beer bottles and trash stuck to the darkly wet concrete.

 

The ground sat patchy and uneven under the stab of your heels. The lot is squeezed in, hemmed either side by bare breeze block buildings with graffiti dripping down the sides. The back door of the bar is surrounded by dull grey kegs and old boxes that the rain has tamped to mush.

 

Turns out the green car is easy to find. There’s three cars in the lot. One is  silver, and it’s jacked up on bricks. The other is a cherry-neon red. The last one is faded emerald green.

 

Well, green was pushing it. It was green, inbetween the spots of rust pocked all over the paintwork like wounds from battle. The roof was dotted with silver drops of rain, as was the hood. One tyre was missing a hubcap and you’re certain this old clunker is held together by the paint and dirt molecules tethering it as one piece.

 

Even from back here you can hear the dull whump of the music from the bar. Something loud and vile rock. Grunge maybe-

 

To take the weight off your now dead feet, you lean back and rest on the hood of his car. The metal and the dots of rain shears cold wet at your ass but it’s better than the agony in your feet. You taste the cold night cruel on your tongue slithering along the taste of whiskey and vanilla oak. Warm drunkenness sits sodden in your limbs.

 

You slump back on the car and let a slow breath rock your chest as you look upwards to the darkness. Only foggy orange black swims above you from the streetlights. There’s no moon out tonight. Clouded by matte black. Lost.

 

A clattering door ramming shut directs your attention back to the seedy dive bar. Your heart chokes up your chest to see him stalking on long legs towards you. He looks even taller when not behind the hip height bar.

 

You can’t see him fully until he passes under the glowing orange of the street lamp. He walks in long strides. Not hurried but not glacial paced either. His shoulders sway with his willowy walk. Plaid flapping at his sides.

 

In the dark that he walks in now, a glowing tip of a cigarette is all you can see. Burning brighter than the heart of an Indian sun. He takes a long drag before plucking the cig from his lips and lobbing it away to fizzle to death on the wet concrete. Silver smoke darting back over his body as he exhaled moves to you.

 

In the orange light, it casts cruel sharp shadows over his pretty face. His eyes are shaded and his expression is carved up into dark brutal angles. He licks his lips as he comes even closer. Dog tags swaying about his neck. Jeans all frayed white at the knees, and dirty black and white chequered vans on his feet.

 

You want to say something smart or sharp. But the way he’s stalking to you with urgency in his step zips your mouth tight shut. You feel your pussy pulsing between your legs. It knows what it wants. It knows why you staggered drunk into a dark badly lit parking lot like a damn fool.

 

Your whole evening had been tapering down, filtering through to this moment. Granted it wasn’t where you’d thought you’d be. You’d been prepared for a night of home cooked meal and polite safe sex in a soft bed with Will.

 

And here you are now- about to climb in an old heap of junk in a parking lot, and fuck the damn brains out this annoying bar-tending prick instead.

 

“No smart words?” He grins as he comes within yards of you. His drawl buffets through the night like the heady whiskey you’ve sunk.

 

“Just shut your damn mouth and fuck me already.” You bite out somewhere beyond a smile.

 

He slows as he comes near. Drinking in the state of you. Stretched out like that on his hood with those curvy legs and heels for him to see.

 

His eyes are shaded. He comes right up close. His knees in front of yours. No bar between you both now.

 

One of those big hands swoops for your fleshy hip and he tugs until you slide down the hood a little and come to a stop, yanked against his body.

 

You sit up on instinct and this brings you nearly flush to his chest. Hands flat to the car behind you. A mere inch away from each other. He’s so tall he bows his head to look down at you.

 

He doesn’t waste a second. His hand slips from your hip to delve between your thighs. He feels the drenched silk that’s waiting there for him.

 

He cups your pussy in his hand and presses his palm right to you. Flat and pushing hard against your sopping sex. His hand is cold and you’re so blazing hot that the difference burns. You want to curse at the fact the jewellery on his fingers is cruelly cold.

 

You are stuttering out curses when he slots his thumb through your glistening cunt lips. And he’s chucking low in the back of his throat. Smile sharp and cocky as he slips his fingers under the crotch of your panties to rub all over you.

 

Oh , Princess. Your slutty little cunt got this wet just for me-“

 

He grunt an annoyed growl through your teeth because he knows that irritates you. But it catches and shifts into a groan as he rubs his thumb hard upwards against your body. Catching your clit and giving it a hard slow roll under the pad of his thumb. Your hips move to him in the most instinctive way.

 

Your back quivers and you arch your hips forwards into him. Yanking a hand into his ancient plaid shirt. Fisting it. You feel how warm his skin is through his shirt. Burns at your hands.

 

“Do I still need a fucking flashlight and a map, huh?” He does it again and you whine and clutch onto him.

 

“That fucking mouth-“ You groan long and slow with pleasure. Head tipping back.

 

He moves his head and you wrap further around him. Feeling his smirk and his teeth snagging against your neck. He sucks and tongues and gives you a sizeable hickie - or five - on your throat. His other hand slips around your other hip and squeezes a good clutching handful of your ass. It felt delicious. That coupled with the rough burn of his beard on your neck is too good a sensation to be true.

 

He gathers up all the slick thats seeping from you. Taking his time slicking his fingers up against you, your breath was stuttering because it felt beyond good. Head swimming good. Brawny rough hands stretching you out and sinking deep to hit spots that make your mouth water and - dear sweet fuck - the way he moves his hand to build up a rhythm makes your eyes almost cross over. A live wire shock bleeding divine right through you. He finds a good rhythm and keeps it.

 

Will’s hands weren’t half this big. They weren’t calloused and learned and plunging and pumping into you like he’s done it a million times already. His fingers jabbed into you and it took a while to get at the right pace.

 

This asshole knows what he’s doing to you.  He can feel every quivering jolt he makes pulse through your pussy.

 

He leans into you and it’s all just cigarettes and muscles and heat. Your dripping all over his hand and you’re certain, onto his car. Knees pulled up right around his hips as your tits brush against the scratchy washed texture of his tee. You’re moving your hips to him so fast and moaning so loud you don’t care if someone hears you.

 

“Gotta make sure you can take my dick in that slutty pussy after I make you cum on my fingers-“ He smirks as he leans even more into you.

 

Cups your hips and shoved them down to meet him as he fucks his fingers into you deeper. Thumb on your clit as he alternated thrusting and rubbing. A pattern that felt way too amazing to analyse.

 

“Want me to rip that skirt up right here and do you on the hood? Pound your uptight ass right here in the open for anyone to see you getting dicked down?” He drawls. Dragging his lips and tongue over your ear. Sucking on the spot under it, the one that gets you mewling louder.

 

Oh, Yeah, you like that-“ He drawls lowly. You can hear him smiling. Hearing his fingers swirling wet inside you. Slick and dripping.

 

Your body knew what to do when he goes deeper and harder. You couldn't move, couldn't catch any sort of breath. All you could do was sit there against him and take it. So intense.

 

You came so hard and quick in a way you never have before. You feel nothing but it. You hear nothing. You don’t even hear him swearing as he felt your cunt constrict tight on his fingers. Smirking and choking back a smug laugh as he feels your orgasm flood his fingers. You spurting over his hand.

 

“Fuck. So goddamn sloppy-“ He moans. Lazily scissoring his fingers to feel it all ooze out of you. Listening to what he’s done to you.

 

You hate that you’ve pleased him in any sort of manner. But right now your head is shot to foggy bits. Your legs are shivering and you’ve just had your best orgasm to date on the hand of a guy whose name you don’t even know-

 

You manage to wet your dry lips and pull back to watch him shove his hand in his pocket for his car keys. When he gets them they shine sharp in the low orange light, and there’s a faded black Queue ball keychain attached to them.

 

He scoops a hand to the back of your waist and slides you off the car into him. You hang onto a fistful of the plaid shirt you have bunched in your hand by his waist.

 

“Ready to get fucked?” He says with lazy complacent smile.

 

“I was fucked the second I considered fucking you.” You smirk, leaning up and shove your nose into his neck to give him a hickey like several of the ones he’s given you. You bite a patch of skin under his ear til it turns red.

 

You can hear him grunt and his mouth drops. For once, he isn’t running his mouth or being a bastard. You feel how his cock swells at the action where it’s prodded into you. Made quite a sizeable bulge in his jeans.

 

You slither your hands between his bodies and cup over his hardening cock. Smiling when it practically pulses up into your hand. You curl your fingers and jerk him hard. You hope he’s as thick as he feels through the stiff denim.

 

“Get in the fuckin’ car.” He warns breathlessly with lidded eyes and no patience.

 

You slip around it and walk to the backseat. He cages you there. Storms up behind you and for the first time in unison you groan a shuddering sound when his hips rubs his hard cock into your ass. Makes him slam one free hand to the car roof as he twists the key in the lock.

 

You step back when you hear it give and he grits his teeth when that presses your ass even more into his hard on. “In.” He hisses deep at your neck as he tears open the door.

 

“Well. I didn’t think we’d be fucking in the roof.” You quip.

 

“I got something to keep your mouth plenty occupied.” He warns as he stands in the chiaroscuro of the orange lights and the swallowing dark.

 

You roll your eyes and glide across the cool seats. Bouncy soft and made of cool creamy beige leather. You sink into them and make room for him to follow you. Sliding right across.

 

The interior smells musky and old. Dust and faded sunshine. He had one of those cheap tree shaped pine air freshener tacked to the wonky rear-view mirror. There’s a few scuffs and holes in the seats. They sag with age and the carpets in the foot wells are matted with dirt.

 

You shrug off your jacket and litter it to the floor. Aswell as taking off your bag and placing it there. He gets in the seat next to you and thus with the slam of the rattling car door, round two of the hate-fuck begins.

 

You don’t make a show of it. But you kneel on the seat and lean over him as you work on his flies. He sits there smirking as your rip open his jeans. Literally. You hear some stitching go as you overzealously tear apart the old buttons of his flies. The denim comes away like wet paper. You root through his black boxer briefs to get to him. Shoving the band down his thighs to get at him.

 

“Easy princess-“ He moans as his hips leap a little at the ferocity of your hands.

 

“Drop that name and I’ll be gentle.” You smile sweetly. Judging by the way his breath is skipping and the blush swirling at the base of his neck, he doesn’t want or do gentle. He lets his arms lay flat along the back of the sagging bench seat. His head drops back when you get your prize at last; his dick.

 

He’s a definite upgrade from Will. His had been just a decent size. This guy was packing a little more. Long, lean, and a decent girth but not a gut destroying monster. It was as pretty as the rest of him. A little curved but not too much.

 

The sight of your red nails wrapped around his cock and pumping it up made a whine spill out his mouth. His cock head was flushed a delicious rosy pink. Precome dribbling down his veiny length.

 

“All this for me?” You flirt triumphant like a coquette with your fingers jerking his leaking cock.   

 

“No. It was the blonde with huge tits across the bar I was hoping for. I got a bitchy hell-cat instead.” He jokes.

 

You’ll make him eat those regretful nasty words by the time you’re done.

 

This was a two hand job and you curl one at the fat base, another around the middle and there’s still a nice sized inch left to fit in your mouth.

 

Fucking perfect.

 

You open your mouth and slip the soft head of him onto your tongue. Openly letting him see how you take a long lick to taste him. Salt and man and musk. There’s no other name for it. Clean musky sweat and some lingering old spice of soap.

 

You’re no slouch, you let your drool coat him, dribbling down, and then you glide down as you pump your hands. One leaving to steady on his thigh that jerked under your touch as you held his dick to your mouth and sucked it so good in the hopes he’d get his earlier smugness served right back to him.

 

Shit.” He chokes out. His hips nudge up to you when your free hand works it’s way to his balls and you smooth teasing fingertips over them. Feeling the shape. Taut and heavy. Heavier than you thought they’d be. Of course he has fucking huge balls. Where he keeps his bravado and his brains- obviously.

 

You bob your head. Swirl your tongue. Suck and slather and worship the dick in front of you with all the devotion a pretty cock like this deserved. Just a shame it was attached to this lean fucker.

 

His hands can’t keep free of you. His digs one into your hair and he pulls as his hips push up. You swallow him down with a slow steady suck and he’s nearly squirming. Gathering your hair in his big hands holding it as his mouth drops and he watches you leave love bite lipstick smears all along his dick.

 

When you bring him all the way out your mouth and pull your lips back in a smeared red smile. He can’t help how much he fucking smiles a shit eating grin at how you made his earlier words redundant. Your face glistening silver with spit and his length sliding on the soft bed of your tongue.

 

Fuck, Princess.” He smarts when you let him hit the back of your throat, you swallow and breathe around a gag that threatened to trip your good performance up. Plus the tantalising view he had of your tits swaying over the seat as he sat there and had the best head he’s gotten in years, made moans come quick and fast.

 

“As much as I’d love the expression on your face if I fucking shoot in your mouth. You need dick. And I want that wet pussy.” He puffs out when you finally pull free.

 

“Let me make you cum like that no good fucker couldn’t.” He bargains as he sits there so his cock leaking over his jeans. Glistening and red from your mouth. He’s giddy with the need to compete. To be the best-

 

You reach for your purse with the many condoms in. You chuck him one and he catches it one handed. Ripping it and shoving his jeans down to roll it on himself. Panting with pleasure as he stroked himself.

 

You sit back on the seat to take off you heels. He barks out at you. “Leave em. Just hitch up your dress and take those fucking soaked panties off.” He commands.

 

You lean back on the seat and drag the things down your legs. He helps rip them off your calves and then he’s pressing you down on the bench. Hips between yours. Hands at your shoulders. Caging you to the corner of where the bench met the door. Your head is hitting back the cold fog smeared window. Springs and cold buttery old leather at your back.

 

The rough burn of his beard is back at your neck. He tongues patterns down into your cleavage, pushing his face there and leaving nibbles and bites all over, as the silky feel of his cock in the condom rests at your pussy - so near yet so not near enough. You need him pounding you like a possessed sadist until you can do nothing but babble.

 

You yank your hands into his back and his head when he bites down on the sensitive tops of your tits. Soothing sharp bites with his tongue.

 

Fed up of spongy springy wool under your hands, you decided unilaterally to finally rip the goddamned black beanie off his head and lob it in the front. It might have landed on the dashboard. You don’t give one fuck.

 

You yank your hands in the short brown thorns of his hair. It falls forwards over his brow and in his eyes in a sexy rugged way. He grunts around a bite at your neck at the sting.


 “Fuck me, asshole.” You dare him.

 

And boy, does he-

 

He grips himself and lines up to your cunt. And he isn’t slow about giving you what you need.

 

Holy fuck is this what you needed. His dick slots into you so hard and right and your eyes roll back in your skull. Sheer bliss knocking into you with the first push. 

 

The first thrust jolts you both. He tests the waters with a vicious surge of his hips and a growling moan “Damn this pussy’s tight.” Under his breath.

 

He starts moving and winding his hips in a way that has you gasping already. His hands brace against the doors either side of you as he pumps into you. Pounds you into the shitty bench seat. Each time he pulls back just the right amount and fills you again. The sloppy plunge and tug of him in your cunt feels so just like what you needed.

 

His belly rubs into yours as he rolls his hips to you. You’re both slanted so awkwardly across the damn seats but you do not care one bit.

 

Pleasure bubbled all over your belly with every long even thrust, pushing the heat to the deepest parts of your cunt. Places that made you tremble and shout. Places you didn’t even know a cock could reach too- not one attached to a man anyway. Certainly on your own with your dildo you graze all those spots and wonder why a man never can-

 

“How can you be such a bitch and this pussy be so fuckin’ good. ” He pants before he swallows down a groan. Bearing his teeth down his lower lip as he feels the seats squeak below the both of you.

 

You wrap your arm around his back and leave hickies on his neck. Right above his collar. Yellow and green and ugly blue. You hope people spot them and somehow it makes you feel good to know you’re marking him as the brazen slut he is.

 

“Nothing above the fuckin collar. I got work.” He seethes. Railing you harder in punishment. The suspension on the car is so soft you can almost hear it creaking and rolling. You let him feel your smirk.

 

“Tough shit.” You playfully nibble the shell of his ear. He grunts and grabs your legs to shove them apart. Ramming in so hard your vision goes fizzy static as you smash your head a little on the window. Harsh slapping skin and you feel his balls pounding into you too. Your pitchy yelping whine makes him sneer.

 

“What was that?” He goads you. “Princess want it harder?” He snarls at your lips. You have the most insane urge to kiss him. His beer tasting lips are so pink and they’re right there there there above you. Sweat glowing on both your faces. Dewy at your hairlines. You bite the inside of your lip.

 

You whine with the new speed and sensation and then he has to go and rub circles at your clit. Your head throws back and you wail. Nails stabbing his shoulders and he puffs heated grins against your shoulder.

 

“That’s it. Come on. You can take my cock. Such a slut. You wanted it so badly.” He licks the sweat dribbling off your neck.

 

“S-shut up.” You spit at him. Words surrounded by moans you can’t hold back.

 

It’s no secret the cars rocking now. Bouncing back and fucking forth as hes railing you into the bench seat, alternating between squeezing your throat, licking your neck with bites and kisses, and playing with your tits. Scooping his hands inside your bra.

 

“I want those tits in my mouth but fuck, I’m gonna cum soon.” He warns as he doesn’t stop playing with all the various erotic  zones of your body. He settled on one hand pushed, wedged, in your bra pinching your nipple and the other by your head as he holds himself up and rails you.

 

You feel like you’re some scummy version of  seventh heaven, lying here with a tall man wedged in between your legs. Legs that start to shake and wobble and you just know you may very well scream when you cum.

 

“Tell me how much you hate me, Princess. Gets me off.” He smarts as his fingers savagely feel like they do something to bruise your nipple.

 

You whine as you scrabble your nails at his shitty plaid. You hope it rips like tissue paper. It’s as thin as.

 

“I fucking hate your guts.” You spit. “Fuuuuck .” You mewl.

 

“Funny. Cause I’m busy rearranging yours, you bitch.” He snaps out. Throwing his head back to huff a groan.

 

He snarls and keeps hammering you deeper. Your poor cunt starts to spasm around him. Not able to take it much longer. It feels like he wounds you with each thrust. Good. Means you feel it when you’re done. That sore throb of satisfaction will last and last-

 

“Be pissy at me, but you’re gonna gush on this dick honey. I can feel it.” He pledges. “Let me see this slutty little pussy squirt.” He bites his lower lip in a smile and keeps his eyes solidly on you as his hand slips to find the ember hot pearl of your clit.

 

You can’t even whine. You open your mouth but no sound comes. Fucking hell you don’t hate him. You loathe him. He jabs over a spot inside you like he’s studied it like a scholar. Muscles straining stretching to hold himself up. Maintain his pounding.

 

Your thighs cage his hips. “Gimme that orgasm Princess. Give it to me. I’m gonna blow my load in you. Fucking shit.” His voice tilts up at the end and his thrusts turn to hard stabs that make your back arch to him.

 

You grip the back of his head and when you look up at him your mouth opens when you feel yourself flutter and clench and start to cum.

 

It’s an obliterating kinda thing that happens. It knocks you for six. An orgasm that you’ve seldom experienced save for you using a battery operated piece of plastic all by yourself.

 

It builds and swells like some classical chorus and then you just feel a rush of pleasure swarm your guts. You cling to him and sob as you cum. And cum and cum. You can’t believe it- 

 

You feel his groan muggy wet against your ear when he cums too. Hips stuttering. Face flushing. Fingers sloping to grip at the leather seats cause you’re both dewy in sweat. He feels the way you soak sticky wet over his balls and he fucking sneers at it.

 

“Yes princess. Oh shit, yes. Every drop. Take it all. Fuck.”

 

Especially the way you lay there shivering and gasping for air. He eventually stops rocking his hips into you and shaking the damn car.

 

The windows drip with fog. Obscuring an orange dark world outside the window of the muggy car where you lay crushed together.

 

You’re sticky and the seats are tacky. It smells like manly sweat in here now. And condom lube is smeared hot on your inner thighs.

 

He edges out every last drop of his cum into the condom. Large cock going soft in your cunt. Your sure you’ve got a crick in your neck and your dress is halfway up your back. You unstick your sweaty thighs from his plaid torso.

 

Fuck you’re in so much trouble- 

 

“I didn’t even ask your name.” You sigh. Puffing for breath and all ordinary forms of life and senses to return to you. As you lay basking in a puddle of sweat and sex on his back seat.

 

“Roman.” He tells you as he sits back on his haunches and slicks off the used condom and ties a knot in it. Opening the door and tossing it away in a way that would have usually made you cringe. He then drags a hand through his hair. It’s spiky and sheared short at the back and spikes of it fall in his eyes. Actually a sexy look on him. Hair falling in his face. 

 

Right now. You’d just like to lay here and drool like a senile old lady because of the satisfaction of getting so very very well laid.

 

You give him your name out of nowhere.  He curls a smirk you hate as he dressed himself up again.

 

“You wanna see me again for another fuck sometime? Cause holy shit. That was kinda hot.”

 

“No.” You smirk. Nodding.

 

He smiles that dumb smile.

 

Motherfucker sitting there, with his stupid goatee patch and his perfect cock and perfect lean body and big, dumb brain. 

 

He pulls away and roots around in bucket of the passenger seat. Comes back. Tugs your arm close and yanks the lid off a thick ugly permanent marker. “Your number or mine, Princess?”

 

Shit. Shit. Shit .

 

 

 

~