The café’s warm glow felt suddenly too bright, too public. Jason’s hand tightened around hers under the table—brief, possessive—then released. He stood first, calm, like the decision had already been made. His eyes flicked toward the back hallway, then back to her.
“Follow me,” he said quietly. Not a question.
Glen didn’t hesitate. She rose, leaving her untouched coffee behind. The barista was busy wiping down the espresso machine, facing away. No one noticed them slip past the counter toward the narrow corridor that led to the restrooms.
The hallway was dimmer, lit only by a single bulb. The music from the main room dulled to a low throb. Jason pushed open the single-stall bathroom door—unisex, empty—and held it for her. She stepped inside. He followed. The lock clicked shut behind them.
The space was small. Mirror over the sink. One toilet. Tiled walls. The faint smell of lemon cleaner mixed with the scent of his skin—clean sweat, cologne, something darker now.
He turned to face her.
No words at first.
He simply looked—taking in the way her blouse clung slightly from nervous heat, the way her skirt rode a little higher from sitting, the flush high on her cheeks. His breathing was steady, controlled, but his eyes had darkened to near-black.
She felt the shift. The playful flirtation from the table was gone. This was different. Hungrier.
She reached behind her back, found the zipper of her skirt, and pulled it down slowly. The fabric loosened. She let it fall, stepping out of it in one smooth motion. Now she stood in only her white blouse and black lace panties—thin enough that the damp spot at the crotch was already visible.
Jason still didn’t speak.
He hooked two fingers under the waistband of her panties and yanked them down in one rough motion. The lace caught briefly on her thighs before dropping to her ankles. She kicked them aside.
Now she was bare from the waist down, skirt discarded, blouse barely covering the tops of her thighs.
Jason didn’t waste time.
He pressed two fingers against her entrance—testing, finding her already soaked—and pushed inside without warning. Glen gasped, back arching, forehead pressing to the mirror. He didn’t go slow. He fucked her with his fingers—hard, fast, curling against her front wall, thumb finding her clit and rubbing rough circles that made her knees buckle.
“Fuck—” she whimpered, voice cracking.
He didn’t answer. Just kept finger-fucking her—wet, obscene sounds filling the tiny room. Her juices coated his hand, dripped down her inner thighs. She watched it all in the mirror: her own flushed face, her mouth open in a constant moan, his arm flexing behind her as he worked her relentlessly.
She came fast—too fast—legs shaking, walls clamping down on his fingers in violent spasms. A sharp cry tore from her throat. Her knees gave out; only his arm around her waist kept her upright.
But he didn’t stop.
He pulled his fingers free—slick and shining—and spun her around. She was still trembling when he pushed her back against the sink. Her ass hit the edge. He spread her thighs wide with his hips.
His jeans were already open. His cock—thick, veined, flushed dark—stood rigid between them.
He didn’t ease in.
He gripped her hips, lifted her slightly, and thrust—hard, deep, one brutal stroke that buried him to the root.
She cried out again—sharp, startled, overwhelmed. The stretch burned, deliciously painful, perfect. He filled her completely, pressing against every sensitive spot at once. Her walls fluttered around him, still sensitive from the first orgasm.
He fucked her like a machine.
Fast. Rough. Merciless.
Each thrust slammed her back against the sink, making the porcelain rattle. Her ass slapped against the edge with every stroke. His balls slapped wetly against her with every deep plunge. The wet, filthy sounds of their bodies colliding echoed off the tiles—skin on skin, slickness, her choked moans, his low grunts.
“Look,” he growled, grabbing her chin and forcing her to face the mirror again. “Watch yourself get fucked.”
She did.
Her reflection was wrecked—blouse half-open, breasts bouncing with every brutal thrust, face flushed crimson, mouth open in a constant moan. Mascara had started to run from earlier tears of pleasure. She watched his reflection behind her—jaw clenched, eyes dark with focus, hips driving into her like he was trying to imprint himself inside her.
He sped up—short, punishing strokes that hit her cervix every time. His hand slid between them again, fingers finding her clit and rubbing fast, rough circles.
“Come again,” he ordered. “Now.”
She shattered.
The second orgasm ripped through her—violent, blinding. Her walls clamped down on him in rhythmic spasms, milking him hard. A raw scream tore from her throat. Her legs gave out completely; he held her up by the hips while he pounded through it, dragging the climax out until she was sobbing, oversensitive, shaking uncontrollably.
He fucked her through it—harder, deeper—chasing his own release now. His thrusts turned erratic, hips slamming against her ass with bruising force. His breathing grew harsh, ragged.
“Fuck”
He pulled out suddenly, hand flying to his cock. He spun her around—fast, almost rough—and pushed her to her knees.
“Open.”
She did—mouth wide, tongue out, eyes locked on his.
He stroked himself twice, three times—fast, desperate—and came with a low, guttural groan.
Thick ropes of cum splashed across her tongue, her lips, her chin. Hot, heavy spurts hit the back of her throat; she swallowed reflexively, greedily, taking everything he gave her. Some dripped down her neck, soaked into her blouse, marked her skin. He kept his hand on the back of her head, holding her steady while he emptied himself completely.
When the last pulse faded, he finally released her.
She stayed on her knees, breathing hard, face and chest streaked with his release. She looked up at him—eyes glassy, lips swollen, chin shiny.
Jason exhaled slowly, chest still rising and falling fast. He tucked himself away, zipped up, smoothed his shirt like nothing had happened.
Then he looked down at her—small, satisfied smile touching his lips.
