He is smiling as your glasses land together with a solid thunk against the bar. You grin back at him as the crowd behind you jostles against your shoulders.
"What do I owe you?" you shout over the jukebox, voices and laughter. Mark leans in towards you, and you step one foot onto the base of the bar, rising up to bring yourself closer to him, aware of the cleavage you are exposing as you lean across the counter. His short beard brushes against your cheekbone.
"On the house, dear," spoken softly in his smooth tenor, the same reply as always. His mouth is warm next to your ear and he stays a moment longer than necessary, rubbing his face against your skin once more before pulling away. Your mouth is slightly open, eyes locked on his.
Suddenly, a voice to your right: "Two rum and cokes?" He breaks eye contact for a quick nod to the customer beside you, then turns to make the drinks. You watch as he reaches up for the bottle of rum, noticing the shape of his forearm, the color of his skin exposed by his rolled-up sleeve. The interaction between the two of you is familiar, and you let the sweet tension settle in your belly with the warmth of the bourbon. It's a busy night, and by the time he is returning from the cash register, you're zipping up your coat. You catch eyes once more as you back into the crowd; he gives a three fingered wave around the pint glasses in his hand, treating you to one more sideways smile before you turn and exit.
As you wait for a break in traffic to dart across the street, you bury your chin into the collar of your winter coat. The wind is cold on your skin, and you feel it all the sharper for the warmth pulsing below your belly. You let yourself imagine the bar at the end of the night: unusually quiet, lightswitch flicking off, Mark turning the key in the lock and looking over his shoulder before thrusting his hands into his pockets and heading off to wherever he calls home. You wonder if you'll ever get the chance to accompany him. He's been flirting with you hard since the night you moved into the apartment across the street from the bar. You love these kind of men-not too tall, healthy looking, shaggy dark hair and scruffy beards around bright smiles and playful eyes. He's friendly and funny, and while it may be the free shots of Makers that keep you stopping in every night after work, you're eager for him to share a bit more of himself.
Indeed, as you walk up the stairs to your apartment, your fingertips are already tracing figure eights around the seam below the zipper of your jeans. You unlock your door and close it behind you, and your coat slides to the floor as your fingers slip under the waistband of your Levis. You collapse onto the couch and reach down to the wetness that has warmed your welcoming cunt, close your eyes, and let yourself go.
You awake disoriented, wincing in the bright light of your living room. Your orgasm must have knocked you into a deep sleep, and your eyes focus on the clock: 2:20am. You stretch out your legs, curling your toes, and your doorbell rings. This is the second ring, you realize. The first had been the sound that woke you up. Your face is flushed but presentable in the mirror by the door, and your socks patter down the stairs to see who is there. Cold air floods the entryway as you open the door-it is Mark.
"I saw your light on while I was closing up," he says. "There's just a trickle in the bottom of the Makers' bottle and I thought you might like to split it with me." His face is mischievous and hungry. It's a bold move: dropping by to invite you over to the bar after close. You feel an eager twitch between your legs, and say, "I'm always up for a nightcap."
