Rain Check

The café smelled of wet wool and burnt espresso, and I was already regretting the walk over. Then I saw her. Maya sat by the window, rain streaking down the glass behind her, a damp strand of dark hair stuck to her cheek. She was nursing a cappuccino, but her eyes found mine the second I shook the water off my jacket, and that look—it wasn’t a hello. It was a held breath.

“You’re soaked,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Worth it,” I said, sliding into the chair across from her. I’d trained her for three months. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I watched her in the gym mirror, watched her push through squats, watched the sweat darken the back of her tank top. I’d never said a thing. But now the rain had trapped us here, and the air between us felt thick enough to cut.

“You always watch me like that?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re counting the seconds until I’m out of my clothes.”

My cock twitched in my jeans. Fuck, she was direct. “Maybe I am.”

She bit her lip, then glanced around. The café was nearly empty—just a bored barista at the counter and an old man asleep over a newspaper. Maya reached under the table and her hand landed on my thigh. Not shy. Deliberate. She squeezed, fingers inching up until they brushed the outline of my dick.

“This is where you tell me to stop,” she whispered.

“No,” I said, my voice rough. “This is where I tell you to keep going.”

She did. She unzipped my jeans right there, her fingers slipping inside, finding me hard and aching. I hissed through my teeth as her palm wrapped around my shaft, stroking slow, deliberate. A drop of rain slid down my neck and I didn’t feel it. All I felt was her hand, her thumb tracing the head, smearing the slick pre-cum.

“People can see,” I muttered, but I didn’t move away.

“That’s the point,” she said, and then she leaned in, her mouth near my ear. “I think about you every night. In the shower. In bed. I think about that thick cock inside me, splitting me open.”

I was done. I grabbed her wrist, pulled her up, threw a few bills on the table. “Back room,” I said. “Now.”

The back room was a storage closet—boxes of napkins, a mop, a flickering fluorescent light. I locked the door and turned around and she was already pulling her soaked shirt over her head. Her tits spilled out of her lace bra, nipples hard, and I didn’t waste a second. I bent her over a stack of napkin boxes, yanked her leggings and panties down to her knees.

“Fuck, yes,” she gasped.

I didn’t tease. I gripped her hips, lined up, and slammed into her.

She was so wet—so goddamn wet—that I slid all the way in on the first thrust. Her pussy gripped me like a fist, hot and tight, and I groaned as I pulled out almost entirely, then drove back in.

“Yes—harder—please,” she begged, her fingers digging into the cardboard.

I gave it to her. I fucked her standing, bent over, my balls slapping her clit with every stroke. The rain hammered the roof, a perfect rhythm with the wet slap of our bodies. Her moans were muffled against her arm, but they filled the tiny room.

“You like that? You like my cock in your tight little pussy?” I growled.

“I love it—oh god—fuck me, don’t stop,” she whimpered.

I reached around, found her clit, rubbed it in fast circles while I pounded into her from behind. She shuddered, her whole body tensing, and I felt her walls clench around me.

“I’m gonna cum—I’m cumming—” she cried out.

I didn’t stop. I fucked her through it, feeling her come undone around my cock, her pussy milking me, and that was it. I buried myself as deep as I could and came inside her, hot and thick, my hips jerking through wave after wave.

She collapsed forward, breathing hard, and I followed, pressing my chest to her back, my lips on her neck.

“That’s not enough,” she said, turning her head to look at me, her eyes dark.

“No?”

“No. My place is ten minutes away. And I have a yoga mat we haven’t broken in yet.”