Chapter 1: The Breakup Bar
The bar was quiet. Not peaceful quiet, but the thick, heavy kind that settles when everyone’s given up on cheering each other up. Adam sat in a corner booth, its red vinyl split in a way that showed a yellowish foam guts. He rolled a nearly empty pint glass between his palms, watching the beer ring slide down the side. The jukebox was groaning out some old sad song about bridges, and the amber light from the Miller sign buzzed overhead, flickering every couple seconds and stretching the shadows just a little longer each time. He saw her shoes first—black strappy heels with a shine that didn't belong in a place with a sticky floor. They stopped directly in front of his table.
“You’re ignoring my texts.”
Adam looked up.
Lindsey.
Her long dark hair fell like a curtain around her face and shoulders, but he knew what was under it. He remembered the shape of her – tall, skinny, with a kind of fragile bird-like frame that hid something frantic and fierce. The black dress she wore was simple, tight, and so short it barely qualified as an afterthought. It rode up another inch as she didn’t ask. She just slid into the booth beside him, her hip pressing against his thigh. But that wasn’t enough. She shifted, turning to face him, and a second later, she was sliding right onto his lap. Her scent, something sharp and floral, cut through the stale beer smell.
“Been thinking,” she murmured, her mouth already close to his ear. Her breath was warm, tasting faintly of peppermint. Her weight settled on him, deliberate, and he felt a jolt of electricity straight down his spine as she ground her hips in a slow, circular motion against the front of his jeans. The fabric was instantly too tight. A soft gasp escaped her lips, a sound he knew too well, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck. “God, I miss that,” she whispered.
Her hand came up, fingers threading into his hair, gripping almost to the point of pain. “I’m not playing. Can’t sleep without hearing it.”
“Hearing what?” Adam’s voice came out rough.
She pulled back, her dark eyes searching his. They were serious. Unblinking. A little wild. “The way you moan. That low, broken sound when I ride you just right.Remember that? The choke in your voice, right before you grab my hips? That.” Her mouth was on his ear again, the words vibrating directly into his skull. “Can’t stop seeing your face like that, Adam.”
He wanted to say it was over. He wanted to push her off. He also wanted to lift her up right there, slam her onto the table, and see if she could still remember how to scream his name the way she used to. The conflict must have shown on his face, because a slow, knowing smile spread across hers. It wasn’t a sweet smile. It was a hunting smile.
Her hand left his hair and wrapped around his wrist. There was no hesitation. None. She pulled his hand from the edge of the table and guided it, firmly, under the flimsy hem of her skirt, up the smooth, bare skin of her thigh. There was no fabric, no lace. Nothing. He hissed in a breath. Higher she pushed his hand, his fingers grazing the heat between her legs. She was bare there, too. And she wasn’t just ready; she was soaking wet, slick and swollen.
“Feel it,” she demanded, her voice thick, barely a whisper. She forced his fingers against her, gasping sharply as he made contact. She held his hand there, moving it against herself, her hips rocking into the pressure of his palm. He could feel her whole body trembling on top of him. “Just feel it. Look… look how he likes it.” Her eyes were locked on the obvious, painful bulge in his jeans.
The old words, her words, punched the air from his lungs.
Her moan was a low, pained thing as she pressed herself harder against his trapped hand. “Please, Adam.” Her forehead dropped against his. Her breath hitched. It wasn’t just arousal shaking her now; it was something desperate, something final. “Take me back.Please. Take me back or… fuck, just fuck