Vapor y Sake

"You're not supposed to be back here," she said, but her voice was barely a whisper, and she didn't move away from the door she'd just slid shut behind her.

Mei had been serving me sake for three months at the izakaya on the corner, always with that slight bow, always with a smile that never quite reached her dark eyes. Tonight the sauna behind her family's restaurant was supposed to be empty. The cedar walls were slick with condensation, steam curling in lazy ribbons around her ankles. She was still in her work clothes — a black apron over a white blouse, hair pinned up with a single wooden stick.

"I know," I said. I didn't move from the bench.

"You came anyway."

"You left the door unlocked."

She laughed, a small, breathy sound. "Maybe I wanted you to."

The steam beaded on her collarbone, and I watched a drop trace a slow path into the hollow of her throat. My cock was already hard, pressing against my towel, and she noticed. Her eyes flicked down, then back up. No pretense left.

"Mei."

"Don't." She untied her apron, let it fall. "Don't say my name like that unless you mean it."

I stood. The space between us was three steps, then two, then none. She smelled of rice wine and jasmine. Her lips were warm, softer than I'd imagined on all those nights watching her pour for strangers. She made a small sound into my mouth — surprise, hunger, something in between — and her fingers found the knot of my towel.

"Slow," she breathed against my jaw. "We have time."

We didn't. Her family was downstairs. But she pulled the towel away anyway and wrapped her hand around my cock, stroking once, base to tip, thumb dragging through the wetness at my slit. I groaned and she kissed me quiet.

"You're so hard," she murmured. "Is this from watching me bend over tables?"

"Every night."

"Mmm." She guided me to the wooden bench, pushed me down. "Then let me give you something better to remember."

She straddled me, still mostly dressed, the crotch of her panties soaked through against my thigh. I pushed her skirt up and found her wet, slick, her clit already swollen under my thumb. She gasped and rocked her hips, grinding against my hand.

"Inside," she said. "Now."

I lifted her and she sank down onto me in one slow slide, so tight and hot I saw white. She braced her hands on my shoulders and started to move — not fast, not rough, just deep, rolling circles that made her breath catch on every stroke. Sweat and steam and the slap of skin. The wooden stick fell from her hair and black strands stuck to her cheeks.

"Look at me," she said. "I want you to see who's fucking you."

I grabbed her ass and pulled her down harder. She cried out, bit her lip, rode me faster. The bench creaked. Her pussy clenched around me in waves and I felt her come — her whole body shaking, nails digging into my back, a long, broken moan muffled against my neck. I followed a heartbeat later, spilling inside her as she held me there, twitching, gasping.

We stayed tangled for a long minute, foreheads touching. She laughed first.

"You're going to have to leave before my mother comes up."

"I know."

She kissed my cheek, soft now, almost shy. "Same time next week?"

"Same time."