I’m propped against the bar, neon buzz chewing my skull, and there she is—legs that don’t fucking quit, skirt barely covering what I’m dying to grab, and I’m thinking, shit, those thighs, I want to spread ‘em, bury my face in her, make her shake. The place reeks of stale beer and bad decisions, but her lips on that wine glass, stained red, are all I see, and I’m hard as fuck, picturing them wrapped around my cock, wet and hot. My hands are twitching to grab her hips, yank her close, and I’m wondering if she knows she’s got me fucked up, just sitting there, smirking like she’s hiding something I need to screw out of her.

Her laugh hits me, low and dirty, like a shot of cheap whiskey, and I’m thinking how it’d sound if I had her pinned, legs around me, begging my name. I slide closer, knee nudging hers under the table, testing, and her eyes hit mine—sharp, like she’s saying, bring it, asshole. I lean in, voice rough, spitting filth about what I’d do if we were alone, shit so nasty it’d make a trucker blush—but she doesn’t flinch. Her thighs squeeze, yeah, but her eyes don’t drop. They lock on mine, daring, like she’s seen darker and liked it. And for half a second, I’m thrown. Like I just woke something I might not be able to put back to sleep.

We’re getting up to leave, and she snatches her wine glass, half-full, and struts out. The bartender yells, “Hey, you can’t take that!” but she just laughs, that throaty sound that’s got me hooked, and keeps walking, glass in hand, like she owns the damn place, and I’m thinking, fuck, she’s a walking bad idea, and I’m all in.

The bar’s a blur—sticky floors, dim lights—but she’s sharp as a knife, her smell, some flowery shit mixed with pure sex, dragging me under. I’m thinking about her skin, how it’d feel under my hands, soft but hot, how I’d mark it with my teeth. My hand’s on her lower back, claiming her, and she presses closer, not backing off, and I’m fighting the urge to fuck her in the alley. But I hold off, barely, ‘cause I want her spread out, somewhere I can take my time, make her scream.

We’re in my car, my hand on her knee, sliding up, and she’s not stopping me, just opens her legs a bit, enough to make my head pound, enough to feel her heat through that skirt. She doesn’t look at me when she does it—just sips her wine, all calm and quiet, like she’s pulling puppet strings I didn’t even know were wrapped around my throat. That flowery smell’s thicker now, mixed with her pussy, and I’m thinking about how it’d taste, how I’d lick her till she’s clawing me, and I’m gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles ache, trying not to pull over and dive into her right here. She’s still holding that damn wine glass, sipping it, fucking with me, and her voice is like a hand on my cock, jerking me, talking some bullshit about the bar while I’m picturing her naked, legs wide, my tongue on her clit, hard and pulsing. We’re headed to her place, ‘cause she said so, and I’m thinking about her couch, her space, how I’m gonna own it, make it ours.

We stumble into her apartment, and I’m on her the second the door slams, hands in her hair, yanking just enough to make her gasp, and I’m thinking her neck tastes like salt and sex, like something I want to bite into. She’s still clutching that stolen wine glass, fucking with me, and I grab for it, laughing, but my hand bumps hers, and it tips—red wine splashing the rug, a dark, wet stain, and we’re cackling, too far gone to give a shit. I’m thinking that stain’s us, raw and permanent, and it makes me want to mark her deeper, leave something she’ll feel for days.