The Regular at Chalet Noir

The storm had been howling for three hours when I saw his truck pull into the lot. Same battered Ford, same late Tuesday ritual. I’d been watching the clock, pretending I wasn’t, my thighs pressing together under the bar as I wiped down the same glass for the fifth time.

“Lena,” he said, stamping snow off his boots. Just my name, the way he always said it, like a secret we shared.

“Markus.” I set the glass down. “Black coffee, or are you finally trying something stronger?”

He smiled, that slow, crooked thing that made my stomach flip. “Depends. You offering me something to warm up with?”

The chalet was empty, dead quiet except for the fire crackling in the stone hearth. I poured him a whiskey instead of coffee, and when I leaned across the counter to hand it over, his fingers brushed mine. Lingered. The heat of his skin shot straight through me.

“You’re freezing,” I said, my voice coming out lower than I meant.

“Then warm me up.”

I didn’t think. I just came around the counter and slipped my hands under his flannel, pressing my palms flat against his chest. God, he was solid, all muscle and heat, and his breath hitched when I touched him.

“Lena,” he murmured, and his hands found my hips, pulling me into the V of his legs. “I’ve been thinking about this all week.”

“Yeah?” I tilted my face up, so close I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “What exactly have you been thinking?”

He answered by sliding his hand up my thigh, under my skirt, his rough fingers grazing the damp cotton of my panties. I gasped, gripping his shoulders.

“This,” he said, his thumb pressing against my clit through the fabric. “Thinking about how wet you’d be. How you’d feel when I finally got my hand on you.”

“Fuck, Markus.” My head fell back. He was already teasing me through the thin material, slow circles that made my knees weak.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled my panties down, and I stepped out of them, the air cool on my bare skin. Then his hand was on me, no barrier, his middle finger sliding through my slick folds.

“So ready,” he breathed against my neck. “You been thinking about me too, haven’t you?”

“Every damn night,” I admitted, gasping as he pushed one finger inside me. “At the bar. In my bed. Everywhere.”

He worked me slowly, one finger, then two, curling against that spot that made my vision blur. I was soaked, my juices coating his hand, and I could feel the hard length of him straining against his jeans.

“I need you inside me,” I whispered. “Now.”

He pulled his fingers out and stood, yanking me against him. His mouth crashed into mine, hot and demanding, and I fumbled with his belt, desperate to get him free. When I finally wrapped my hand around his cock, it was thick and heavy, pulsing with heat.

“Fuck,” he groaned into my mouth. “Your hand feels so good.”

I stroked him once, twice, savoring the way his hips bucked into my grip. Then he spun me around, bending me over the bar. I braced my hands on the polished wood, looking back at him over my shoulder.

“Do it,” I said. “I want to feel every inch.”

He lined himself up and pushed in, slow, agonizing, and I cried out as he stretched me open. He filled me completely, that perfect pressure that made my toes curl.

“Jesus,” he breathed, gripping my hips. “You’re so tight. So perfect.”

He started moving, deep and steady, his cock dragging against my walls with every thrust. I moaned, pushing back against him, meeting his rhythm.

“Harder,” I begged. “Please.”

He gave me what I asked for, slamming into me with a force that rattled the glasses on the counter. The sound of our bodies slapping together filled the empty room, mingling with my gasps and his low groans.

“You like that?” he growled, his hand coming down on my ass with a sharp smack. “You like being fucked over this bar?”

“Yes,” I sobbed, the sting only making me wetter. “God, yes.”

He reached around and found my clit, rubbing me in tight circles as he pounded into me. The pressure built, coiling low in my belly, and I was so close, teetering on the edge.

“I’m gonna come,” I gasped. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

“Come for me,” he commanded. “Let me feel it.”

And I did, my orgasm crashing over me like the storm outside, my body clenching around him in wave after wave. He followed a moment later, burying himself deep as he spilled inside me with a guttural moan.

For a long moment, we just stayed there, panting, the fire crackling in the silence. Then he pulled out slowly, turning me around to face him, and I laughed, breathless.

“Well,” I said, smoothing my skirt down. “That’s definitely better than coffee.”

He grinned, kissing my forehead. “Same time next week?”

“I’ll have the whiskey ready.”