Chapter 2: The Tip Jar Provocation
The click of her heels was swallowed by the bass-thrumming darkness of The Velvet Pony. Lisa felt the vibration in her teeth, in her ribs. She didn’t hesitate. The bar was a long sweep of polished mahogany, glowing under suspended bottles. A few men looked up, their glances sliding over her like warm hands. She ignored them, her focus narrowing to the man wiping down the counter.
David.
He was taller than he’d looked online, shoulders broad beneath a fitted black t-shirt, sleeves rolled to show forearms corded with tendons. His dark hair was tousled, his smile easy as he handed a couple their drinks. But his eyes, when they finally lifted and found her, snapped with immediate recognition. And hunger.
She slid onto the stool directly in front of him, the black mini dress tightening across her thighs. She crossed her legs, slow, letting the hem ride up. The neon whiskey sign above his head painted his face in shifting reds and blues.
“What can I get you?” he asked, his voice a gravelly baritone that cut through the music.
“Surprise me,” Lisa said, leaning her elbows on the bar, knowing the position made her cleavage swell above the neckline. “Something strong enough to make bad decisions taste sweet.”
A grin touched his mouth. He turned, pulling a bottle of top-shelf reposado, pouring two fingers into a glass. He set it before her, his fingers brushing hers. A deliberate touch.
“On the house,” he said, his eyes not leaving hers.
“Generous.” She took a sip, the tequila burning a smooth path down her throat. She held his gaze over the rim of the glass. “I like a man who knows what he wants.”
“Do I look like I know what I want?”
“You look like you’re thinking about fucking me over this bar,” she said bluntly, her dirty mouth kicking in, watching his pupils dilate.
He laughed, low and surprised. “Direct. I like that.”
“Good.” She reached for her small clutch, popped the clasp. Without breaking eye contact, she retrieved the single condom, the foil packet catching the light. She held it for a beat between her fingertips, then dropped it with a soft plink into his nearly empty tip jar, where it settled atop a few crumpled bills. She leaned forward, the scent of her jasmine perfume cutting through the smell of booze and wood polish. Her whisper was for him alone. “You won’t be needing this tonight, bartender.”
His breath hitched. He glanced at the condom in the jar, then back at her, his playful demeanor hardening into something raw and intent. His gaze travelled from her glossy lips, down the column of her throat, to where her breasts pressed against the dress fabric. He swallowed.
“Shift ends in ten minutes,” he said, his voice gone rough.
“I’ll be in the ladies’ room.” She downed the rest of the tequila, the heat pooling low in her belly. “Last stall.”
She slipped off the stool, feeling the weight of his stare on her back, specifically on the sway of her ass in the tight dress. She didn’t look back.
The bathroom was a relic of cracked tile and flickering fluorescents, an ugly contrast to the bar’s moody aesthetic. It was empty. The last stall had a functioning lock. She pushed inside, the space cramped and close. She leaned against the cool metal partition, her heart hammering not with nerves, but with a fierce, bright anticipation. She thought of Brody, probably hunched over his laptop, watching the blue dot of her phone sit motionless here. Was he touching himself? The thought made her wet.
The main door creaked open. Heavy footsteps. Then a soft knock on her stall door.
She unlocked it.
David filled the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching the frame. He’d shed his bartender’s apron. His eyes were black with want. He stepped in, crowding her, the door clicking shut and locked behind him. The stall became a world of their own, all harsh light and his breath warm on her face.
“You’re real,” he said, more to himself than her, his hands coming up to frame her face.
“Fucking touch me,” she breathed.
He crushed his mouth to hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was all teeth and tongue and the taste of tequila and mint. His hands slid down, gripping her ass through the dress, grinding her against him. She could feel the hard length of his cock straining against his jeans.
“Turn around,” he growled into her mouth.
She obeyed, turning to face the toilet tank, bracing her hands on the cold porcelain. He gathered the hem of her dress, yanking it up to her waist. Her black thong was a flimsy barrier. He hooked his thumbs in the sides and pulled it down her thighs, letting it fall to her ankles. The cool air hit her exposed skin.
“Christ, look at that ass,” he muttered, his voice thick.
A calloused palm landed on her right cheek, not a slap, but a firm, possessive grip. Then she heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric. He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t ask. The broad, slick head of his cock probed between her legs, finding her already soaked. He pushed the tip inside, a stretching, filling pressure that made her gasp and drop her forehead against the stall wall.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he hissed, his hands clamping on her hips.
He sank into her in one deep, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch was exquisite, a burning fullness that stole her breath. He was thick, and he filled her completely, his pubic bone grinding against her ass.
“Oh, fuck,” she moaned, the filthy word echoing in the tiled space.
He began to move, setting a brutal, driving rhythm from the start. Each thrust slammed her forward, her tits rubbing against the rough metal of the stall. The sound was obscene—the wet slap of skin on skin, his ragged grunts, the creak of the partition. One of his hands left her hip and tangled in her blonde hair, pulling her head back, arching her spine.
“You came here for this, didn’t you?” he panted, his thrusts becoming erratic, deeper. “To get railed in a shitty bathroom by a stranger?”
“Yes!” she cried out, the admission torn from her. The vulgarity, the sheer animal reality of it, was everything she wanted. “Fuck me, just fuck me!”
He pistoned into her, the angle shifting, hitting a spot deep inside that made her vision blur. Her nails scrabbled against the porcelain. She was so close, the coil winding impossibly tight. His other hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rough and insistent.
“Come on,” he urged, his voice a ragged scrape in her ear. “Come on my cock, you dirty fucking wife.”
The words, the relentless friction, the image of Brody somehow knowing, shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and convulsing, clamping around him as she cried out, a raw, choked sound muffled against her arm.
Feeling her clench around him tipped him over the edge. With a final, grinding thrust, he buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural roar, his body shuddering against her back, his heat pumping into her. He held there, pulsing inside her, both of them trembling and slick with sweat in the cramped, reeking space.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heavy breathing and the distant thump of music. He slowly withdrew, the sensation making her legs weaken. He tucked himself away, zipped up.
She turned, leaning against the stall, dress still rucked around her waist. Her thighs were sticky. He looked at her, his expression a mix of awe and residual lust. He reached out, thumbed a smear of her lipstick from the corner of her mouth.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, a laugh of disbelief bubbling up.
Lisa straightened, pulling her dress down, her movements deliberate. The frantic need was gone, replaced by a warm, liquid satisfaction. She bent, picked up her thong, and stuffed it into her clutch. She’d go home bare under her dress. For Brody to discover.
She looked at David, giving him a slow, knowing smile. “You make a good surprise.”
He just shook his head, still trying to catch his breath. “Anytime. Seriously. Fucking anytime.”
She unlocked the stall door, the mainstream bathroom light glaring. She didn’t look back as she walked to the sink. She caught her reflection—flushed cheeks, smudged makeup, hair tousled from his grip. She looked thoroughly used. Ruined, just as she’d promised.
She washed her hands, the water shockingly cold. As she did, she pulled her phone from her clutch. One notification glowed on the screen. A message from Brody, sent five minutes ago.
>> Everything okay?
She wiped her hands, typed a reply, her fingers steady.
>> Better than okay. Just got properly started. Heading to the next spot. Keep watching.
She hit send, smoothed her hair, and walked out of the bathroom, leaving the scent of sex and sin behind. The bar music felt louder, the shadows deeper. She had the whole night ahead of her, and a husband waiting, watching, craving every depraved detail.