The Regular

He was finishing his last half-inch of Barolo when I walked to the front door and threw the deadbolt.

The music had dropped to a hum. Some low jazz thing my dad cues up after ten to nudge people toward the exit. Now it was just background static, filling the hollow space of the wine bar. Empty tables. Counters wiped down. Chairs stacked everywhere except one spot.

His table.

He was my last customer. My only customer for two hours running. The regular.

I had his order memorized before he even sat down. Barolo. The '16. One glass, never the bottle, though he could swing it. He'd nurse it slow, scroll through something on his phone, sometimes crack open a paperback. He showed up Tuesdays and Fridays like clockwork. Early thirties, I guessed. Dark hair that always looked a little mussed, like he'd dragged his hands through it. He wore a wedding ring. Thin, plain band. I clocked it the first time he paid, months back.

He'd never crossed a line. That was the thing. His flirting was so careful it could for politeness. A held glance when I set the glass down. A smile that stretched a beat too long. Once his fingers grazed mine when I handed back his card. He said "Sorry," so quiet I almost missed it.

But I ed it. A little jolt. Static.

My dad had a headache. He bailed at eleven, squeezing my shoulder. "Just cash him out and lock up. You good?"

"I'm good," I said.

I was.

Until midnight hit. Until it was just us and the fridge hum and that fucking smooth jazz.

He was down to his last half-inch of wine. I'd been faking inventory behind the bar, counting bottles I'd already tallied. My skin felt too tight. Every move I made felt deliberate, like I was onstage and he was the sole audience.

I walked over. My apron was off, folded on the bar. Just my black dress, the one that's a touch too short for my dad's taste.

"Last call was an hour ago," I said. My voice came out normal. Good.

He glanced up from his phone. His eyes were a dark green under the warm pendant light hanging over his table. "I know. I'm savoring."

"We're closed."

"I see that." He didn't move. Just studied me. "You're usually gone by now."

"Dad left early."

"Ah."

A beat of silence. The music shifted to something with a slow, walking bass line.

"I should settle up," he said, but he didn't reach for his wallet.

"I should lock the door." I said it to the room, not him.

I turned and padded to the front. The big glass door showed the dark, empty street. My reflection stared back, pale face, long brown hair, that stupid dress. I reached for the deadbolt.

My hand hesitated.

This was the line. The real one. Everything before this was just looks and almost-touches and things I could lie to myself about later. *He was just finishing his drink. I was just doing my job.*

The bolt was cold under my fingers.

I pushed it. The metallic *click-clunk* echoed in the quiet room. It sounded huge.

Final.

I turned around. He was watching me. His phone was away. His hands were flat on the table.

"Door's locked," I said. Like he couldn't tell.

"I see."

"You're not in a rush, are you?"

"No." His voice dropped. Rougher. "No rush at all."

I walked back toward his table, but I didn't stop at it. I walked past it, toward the small hallway that led to the back office and the storage closet and the single bathroom. I didn't look back.

I just walked.

I heard the scrape of his chair.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was insane. This was so stupid. He was a customer. He was married. He was older.

My dad's fucking wine bar.

I stopped in the hallway, near the bathroom door. The light was off here. Just the spill from the main room.

I heard his footsteps behind me.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Then his hand landed on my waist, from behind. Not grabbing. Just resting. A solid, warm weight through the thin cotton of my dress.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"This okay?" he murmured, his mouth close to my ear. His breath was warm and smelled of red wine.

I nodded. I couldn't speak.

He turned me around gently, until my back pressed the cool wall. Then he was kissing me.

And it wasn't careful.

Not anymore.

It was deep and hungry and messy. His tongue slid into my mouth, tasting like berries and oak and something darker. His hands came up to frame my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. Then one hand slid down my neck, over my collarbone, and closed over my breast.

I gasped into his mouth. He squeezed, his thumb finding my nipple through the fabric and rubbing it hard. It sent a sharp bolt straight to my pussy.

I was already wet. I'd been wet for an hour.

"Fuck," I whispered when he broke the kiss to trail his mouth down my throat. "Fuck, I..."

"You what?" he said against my skin. He was biting softly, sucking a mark right where my neck met my shoulder. His other hand went under my dress, sliding up my thigh.

No hesitation.

His fingers were hot.

"I thought about this," I blurted out. My head was spinning.

"I know." His fingers found the edge of my panties. Simple cotton. He hooked a finger under the band. "I thought about it too. Every fucking Tuesday."

Then his fingers were inside my panties, sliding through my slick folds. I jerked, my hips pushing against his hand.

"So wet," he groaned. "Jesus. For me?"

"Yes." It came out a whimper.

He found my clit and circled it, slow and firm. My knees buckled. He held me up with his body against mine, pinning me to the wall as he fingered me. One finger, then two, sliding inside me easy.

I was so ready.

"You locked the door," he said, his voice thick with want. "You knew what you were doing."

"I wanted you to fuck me," I gasped. The words were out, ugly and true. "Right here. Before you left."

He swore again, a rough, beautiful sound. He pulled his fingers out of me and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean, his eyes locked on mine. The sight made my cunt clench around nothing.

"Bend over," he said.

Not asking.

Telling.

I turned, my cheek against the cool painted wall. I heard the rasp of his zipper. The rustle of clothes. Then his hands were on my hips, hiking my dress up around my waist. He pulled my panties down to my knees.

The head of his cock pressed against me. He was thick. I felt the stretch immediately as he pushed in, just an inch.

"Wait," he breathed. "Wait. Condom."

"I'm on the pill," I said. It was stupid. I didn't care. "And I'm clean."

A beat.

A risk, calculated in the dark.

"Me too," he said.

And then he was pushing all the way in, filling me in one long, slow, incredible stroke.

I cried out. My hands flattened against the wall.

"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained. He was all the way in, his hips pressed against my ass.

"Yes. God. More."

He started to move. Slow at first, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Each thrust rubbed his body against my ass, his pants rough against my bare skin.

The friction was unbelievable.

"Touch yourself," he ordered, his hand snaking around my hip. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

I did. I reached between my legs, my fingers finding my clit, already swollen and ****. The second I touched it, my whole body tightened.

"That's it," he grunted. His pace picked up. He was fucking me harder now, his grip on my hips tightening. I could hear the wet sound of him sliding in and out of me, the soft slap of skin.

It was filthy.

It was perfect.

"You feel so good," I moaned, my forehead against the wall. "So fucking good."

"Tight little pussy," he rasped. "Been thinking about this. About bending you over right here."

His words pushed me closer. My fingers worked faster. The coil in my belly pulled tight.

Tighter.

"I'm gonna come," I warned, my voice breaking.

"Come. Come on my cock. Do it."

His command tipped me over. My orgasm ripped through me, blinding and violent. My cunt clamped down on him, pulsing, and I cried out, the sound muffled by my own arm.

The feeling of me coming around him made him lose his rhythm. He swore, a harsh, beautiful string of curses, and started fucking me in short, brutal strokes. I was still trembling from my own climax, oversensitive.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum inside you," he growled. It wasn't a question.

"Yes." I pushed back against him, taking him deeper. "Do it."

He slammed into me one last time and held there, his body going rigid against mine. A low groan tore from his throat. I felt the hot pulse of his release deep inside me, filling me up. He shuddered through it, his hips jerking weakly.

We stayed like that for a minute.

Maybe two.

Just breathing.

Him still inside me, softening. My dress still around my waist. The jazz still playing out front.

Slowly, he pulled out. A trickle of his cum leaked down my thigh. The reality of it, the physical evidence, made my stomach flip.

He tucked himself away, zipped up. I pulled my panties back up, my dress down. My legs felt like jelly.

I turned around. He was leaning against the opposite wall, looking wrecked. His hair was truly messy now. His lips were swollen.

We didn't speak.

What was there to say?

He walked past me, back into the main room. I followed, my steps unsteady. He went to his table, picked up his glass, and drained the last sip of cold Barolo. He pulled out his wallet, left a hundred on the table next to his empty glass.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

"See you Friday?" he asked. His voice was back to normal.

Almost.

I nodded. I couldn't manage words.

He walked to the door. I went behind the bar, found the key, and walked over to unlock it. The bolt slid back with another loud *clunk*.

He opened the door. The cool night air rushed in.

"Goodnight," he said.

"Night," I whispered.

He stepped out into the dark. I closed the door behind him, locked it again.

I stood there, my forehead against the cool glass. My pussy ached. I could still smell him on my skin, taste him in my mouth.

I looked at the hundred dollar bill on the table.

A tip.

I started to laugh. A quiet, hysterical sound in the empty wine bar.

Then I went to get the mop. I had to clean the floor in the hallway.