The Regular

“You always sit at the same table.”

I looked up from the menu I wasn’t reading. The waitress—Mara, according to her name tag—stood there with her notepad out, but her eyes weren’t on it. They were on me. Dark, sharp, and just a little too amused.

“It’s a good table,” I said. “Good view.”

“Of what? The kitchen door?”

“Of you.”

She laughed, but it caught in her throat. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. I’d been coming to this diner for three days now, ever since my business trip dragged into its second week. She was the reason I kept coming back. The way she moved—all hips and impatience—and the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

“You want the usual?” she asked.

“Sure.”

She didn’t write it down. She just stood there, chewing her lip. The diner was nearly empty, just a couple of truckers at the counter and the low hum of a radio playing something sad. The fluorescent lights made everything look flat and tired, except her. She looked like she was waiting for something.

“You’re not from around here,” she said.

“Does it show?”

“You tip too well.” She smiled. “And you don’t stare at my ass like the other guys.”

“Maybe I’m just polite.”

“Maybe you’re just full of shit.”

I laughed. She laughed. And then she said, quiet, so the truckers couldn’t hear, “I get off in twenty minutes.”

That was it. No flirtation, no game. Just that. My cock stiffened in my jeans before I could even think about it. I watched her walk back to the counter, the sway of her hips in those black slacks, and I knew I wasn’t going to make it to my hotel room alone tonight.

Twenty minutes felt like an hour. I nursed a cold coffee and watched her wipe down tables, her movements slower than they needed to be, her eyes flicking to me every few seconds. When she finally untied her apron and said something to the other waitress, my heart was hammering.

She came out the back door. I was waiting by my rental car, the parking lot empty except for the two of us and the distant buzz of the highway.

“You got a room?” she asked, no preamble.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Drive.”

I didn’t even ask where we were going. I just drove. She sat in the passenger seat with her hand on my thigh, her fingers tracing lazy circles. The silence was thick, charged, like the air before a storm. She smelled like coffee and vanilla and something else—sweat, maybe, from the long shift.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“About what I’m going to do to you when we get there.”

She bit her lip. Her fingers tightened on my thigh. “Don’t think too hard.”

The hotel room was generic—beige walls, a bed with a stiff comforter, the faint smell of cleaning spray. I barely registered any of it. She was already undoing her shirt, pulling it over her head, and her tits were perfect, round and heavy, pressing against a black lace bra. I reached for her, but she pushed me back onto the bed.

“Slow,” she said. “I want to look at you first.”

She unbuttoned my shirt, her fingers working slowly, deliberate. Her eyes traveled down my chest, my stomach, and then she hooked her fingers into my jeans and pulled them down. My cock sprang free, hard, leaking a little at the tip. She wrapped her hand around it, stroked once, slow.

“Fuck,” she breathed. “You’ve been hiding this all week?”

“You’ve been teasing me all week.”

She smiled and leaned down, her breath warm on the head of my cock. But she didn’t take me in her mouth. Instead, she crawled up my body, her skirt riding up her thighs, and straddled me. I could feel the heat of her through her underwear, wet and insistent.

“I don’t do this,” she said, looking down at me. “Ever.”

“Then why me?”

She didn’t answer. She just reached behind her, unhooked her bra, and let it fall. Her nipples were hard, dark. She guided my hands to her tits, and I squeezed, kneaded, thumbed the nipples until she let out a small gasp. Then she reached down, pulled her panties aside, and sank onto me.

The heat of her was incredible—tight, wet, pulling me in inch by inch. She closed her eyes, her mouth open, and I watched her take all of me until my hips were flush against hers.

“Oh, god,” she whispered.

“You feel amazing.”

She started to move, slow at first, rocking her hips. Her inner walls clenched around me, hot and slick. I reached up, grabbed her hips, and guided her faster. Her breath came in short little gasps, her tits bouncing with every movement.

“Harder,” she said. “Don’t be gentle.”

I flipped her over, shoved her skirt up around her waist, and drove into her from behind. She gasped, grabbed the headboard, and pushed back against me. The sound of our bodies meeting was wet, obscene, filling the quiet room.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

I reached around, found her clit with my thumb, and rubbed in tight circles. She cried out, her whole body shuddering, and I felt her clench around me, gushing wet.

“I’m going to come,” she gasped.

“Do it.”

She came with a low, guttural moan, her body convulsing around me. I kept pounding into her, chasing my own release, and when I felt her tighten again, I couldn’t hold back. I came deep inside her, hot and hard, my breath ragged against her neck.

We collapsed onto the bed, sweaty and tangled. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. She was the first one to break the silence.

“So,” she said, her voice soft. “You’re here for another week?”

I laughed, breathless. “Maybe longer.”

She rolled over, propped herself up on one elbow, and looked at me. Her hair was a mess, her lips swollen. She was beautiful.

“Good,” she said. “I’d hate to lose my best tipper.”