The memory of his fingers on my skin was all that mattered anymore. How he had brushed against me when he handed me the lighter—a seemingly accidental touch that set an entire world trembling inside me, a tremor that began deep in my belly and spread like liquid fire through my veins. I sat in that smoky bar, my last drink before me, and I knew: in a few minutes, I would never see him again. But that didn’t matter. It was perfect this way. The whiskey in my glass was lukewarm, the ice cubes long melted, and yet I wanted nothing else but this moment, this one, last drink.
The bar was called “The Last Drop,” a name that sounded like a prophecy. Wooden tables, worn-out chairs, a jukebox playing soft blues. I had come alone, ordered a Scotch I barely touched. Not out of sadness, but out of a strange expectation that lay on me like a second skin. As if the evening still held something for me—something that would tear me from this numbing everyday life.
He sat two bar stools away. Mid-thirties, I guessed, with dark curls falling into his forehead and a smile that emphasized the wrinkles around his eyes. No aggressive look, no lewd grin. Just a quiet presence that drew me in like a flame draws a moth—a pull I didn’t want to resist.
“Another one?” His voice was deep, smoky, and I felt something tighten inside me, a sweet, hot anticipation. I nodded, and he ordered two more whiskeys. When the bartender set the glasses before us, he turned on his stool to face me. “To chance,” he said, raising his glass. I clinked mine. “To the last round.”
The Game of Gazes
We spoke little. It wasn’t one of those forced conversations about jobs or hobbies. Instead, our bodies talked. His hand, gripping the stem of the glass as he drank, the way he tilted his head when he listened to me. My own game—I let my gaze wander over his shoulders, along the line of his jaw, the small opening of his shirt where a few chest hairs peeked out. I watched his Adam’s apple move as he took a sip and felt a throbbing between my thighs, a wetness spreading through me like a sweet promise.
“You look like you’re searching for something,” he said suddenly. I laughed softly. “Maybe I’m just finding it.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing my ear, hot and faintly of whiskey. “And if you find it—do you keep it? Or do you let it go again?” His words were an invitation, a challenge that struck me deep inside. I felt something clench within me, a sweet tension that made me alert and wild—and a little desperate.
“I think some things are made for only one night,” I whispered back. He looked into my eyes, long, until I lowered my gaze. Then he placed his hand on mine, which lay on the counter. His fingers were warm, firm, and I felt each one like a small brand on my skin. He traced circles on the back of my hand, slowly moving to my wrist. I held my breath as the pad of his thumb stroked the delicate spot of my pulse—and my heart raced toward him. “Your heart is racing,” he murmured. I swallowed. “That’s because of you.”
“Come,” he said. It wasn’t a question. He left a bill on the counter, took my hand, and pulled me off the stool. His fingers intertwined with mine, and I let myself be led, let myself fall into a night that belonged only to us.
The Way to Him
His apartment wasn’t far. A few streets, past streetlights casting yellow light on the wet asphalt. It had rained briefly, the air smelling of summer and exhaust fumes, of damp asphalt and burnt dreams. He walked close beside me, his hand in mine, fingers interlaced. Every now and then, his thumb brushed over the back of my hand, and a shiver ran down my spine, so intense I felt goosebumps on my arms. Not a word was spoken, but the silence was full of promises. I felt the wetness in my panties, the anticipation accompanying every step—and the certainty that I would surrender myself completely to him.
The apartment door fell shut, and suddenly the silence was there. It roared in my ears as he turned and looked at me. “Still sure?” he asked. I stepped toward him, placed my hands on his chest. “I’ve never been more sure.” His heart beat fast under my fingertips, a wild, impatient rhythm. He placed his hands on my hips, pulled me against him, and I felt his arousal through the fabric of his pants, hard and pressing against my belly.
His kiss was both gentle and demanding. He tasted of whiskey and something sweet, of mint and desire. His lips moved over mine, parted them, and I let him in, let him take everything he wanted. My fingers dug into his shirt, pulling him closer. I felt the warmth of his body through the fabric, the contours of his muscles tightening under my hands. His tongue explored my mouth, teased the tip of my tongue, and I moaned softly, a sound that in the silence of the room felt like a prayer.
He pulled away from me, only to take my hands and lead me through the hallway into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled, as if he had been waiting for me. It smelled of him, of soap and something animalistic, of bare skin and unspoken desires. He stood behind me, placed his hands on my hips, and kissed my neck. I closed my eyes, let my head fall back, surrendered to this warmth. His lips traveled over my shoulder, nibbled gently at my skin, while his hands slowly stroked over my belly, lower, ever lower.
“Slowly,” he breathed against my skin. “We have time.” But I didn’t want time. I wanted him now, here, without delay, without the tormenting tension of waiting. I turned around, grabbed his shirt, and opened the buttons, one after another, nearly tearing them. His chest was smooth, his nipples dark and hard. I leaned forward and took one in my mouth, circled it with my tongue, sucked gently. He moaned softly, his hands threading into my hair, pulling me tighter against him. I sucked, bit lightly, and felt his body twitch under my touch, felt him surrender to me.
The Undressing
We helped each other out of our clothes, a dance of hasty grips and gentle touches. My blouse fell to the
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