Closing Time

The last chair scraped across the floor and I flipped the lock on the front door, the click echoing through the empty restaurant. I could feel his eyes on me from the corner booth, where he always sat, nursing a whiskey he'd barely touched for the last hour.

"You know we're closed, Mike," I said, turning around with a rag in my hand. He was watching me the way he always did, that slow, patient look that made my thighs press together under my apron.

"I know." He didn't move. "Just waiting for you to finish."

My heart kicked. I'd been waiting for this too, for weeks of him coming in alone, ordering the same thing, tipping too much, asking about my day like he actually cared. I was twenty-six, not stupid, and the way his eyes traced my body when I bent to wipe tables wasn't subtle.

"Well, then." I tossed the rag on the counter and walked toward him, untying my apron as I went. "You gonna help me clean up, or you just gonna sit there looking at my ass?"

He grinned, finally standing. "Both."

He was on me before I could breathe, one hand fisting the front of my shirt, pulling me against him. His mouth found mine, hot and demanding, tasting like whiskey and something darker. I moaned into it, my hands going to his belt before I even made the conscious decision.

"Fuck, I've wanted this," he rasped against my lips. "Every time you bent over that table, those jeans..."

"Then stop talking about it." I yanked his belt open, the buckle clattering against the floor.

He pushed me back against the booth, his hands already at the button of my jeans, popping it open with practiced ease. The zipper sang down and his fingers found me through my panties, already wet, already aching.

"Jesus, you're soaked."

"Mike." I grabbed his wrist. "I've been soaked for the last three weeks every time you walked through that door. Now either fuck me or let me go home."

He laughed, low and rough, then dropped to his knees. "Not yet."

He pulled my jeans down my thighs, my panties with them, and I stepped out of them as he guided me back onto the booth seat. His hands spread my knees apart and he just looked at me for a second, my bare cunt glistening under the dim lights.

"God, you're beautiful."

Then his mouth was on me, not gentle, not teasing — hungry. His tongue flat against my clit, his fingers digging into my thighs hard enough to bruise. I cried out, my head falling back against the vinyl, my hips grinding against his face.

"Mike, fuck, yes..."

He ate me like he was starving, two fingers sliding inside me while his tongue worked my clit in lazy circles that made my toes curl. I was already close, so close, when he pulled back and stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Not yet," he said, and unzipped his pants.

His cock sprang free, thick and hard, and my mouth went dry. He wrapped his hand around it, stroking slowly, watching my face.

"Turn around," he said. "Hands on the table."

I scrambled off the booth, my legs shaky, and bent over the table. The wood was cool against my palms, my bare ass exposed to him, and I heard the sound of his belt hitting the floor before his hands found my hips.

He didn't tease. He just pushed inside me in one smooth, brutal stroke.

"Fuck!" I gasped, my fingers clawing at the table.

"God, you feel incredible." His voice was strained, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to hold me still. "So tight. So wet."

He started moving, fast and deep, no rhythm to find, just pure fucking. The table screeched against the floor with every thrust, and I didn't care if the whole street heard. All I could feel was him inside me, filling me completely, his balls slapping against my clit with every drive.

"That's it," he grunted. "Take it. Take all of it."

"I want—" I couldn't finish the sentence, my voice breaking on a moan as he hit that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes.

He pulled out and spun me around, lifting me onto the edge of the table. My legs wrapped around his waist and he slammed back inside me, making me scream. His mouth found my neck, my collarbone, biting hard enough to leave marks.

"I want you to come," he whispered against my skin. "Come on my cock, and then I'm gonna fill this tight little pussy up."

"Mike—"

"Come for me, baby."

His thumb found my clit and that was it. I shattered, my body arching off the table, my walls clenching around him in wave after wave. He followed a second later, his hips stuttering, a deep groan tearing from his throat as he came inside me, hot and thick, filling me to the brim.

We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine. The restaurant was silent around us, the only sound our ragged breaths and the hum of the refrigerator in the back.

"Shit," he finally said, a smile in his voice. "I think I need to become a regular somewhere else."

I laughed, weak and breathless. "You're not going anywhere."

He pulled out slowly, both of us wincing at the loss, and I felt his cum trickle down my thigh. He grabbed the rag from the counter and knelt, cleaning me up with surprising tenderness.

"You okay?" he asked, looking up at me.

"Yeah." I ran my fingers through his hair. "I'm more than okay."

He stood and kissed me, soft this time, slow. When he pulled back, he was smiling.

"So," he said. "Same time tomorrow?"

I pulled my panties back up, wincing at the mess. "I'm off Tuesdays."

"Then let's make today our day." He helped me off the table, his hand warm on my lower back. "I'll bring the whiskey. You bring the noise."

I laughed, leaning into him. "Deal."

CATEGORIES: [Cleaning lady, Restaurant, Just the Two of Us, Rough sex, Creampie]