My laugh was short, sharp, my fingers curling tighter around the dark glass of my beer bottle.

“You’re serious?”

He smiled, slow and lazy, like he knew something I didn’t. He leaned back against the barstool, broad, smug and impossible to ignore.

“Dead serious.”

I returned his smile with a snarky one of my own.

“You think you can make me come without even getting me naked?”

“I don’t think,” he said, voice low—like honey poured over shattered glass—“I know I can.”

He let the words hang there, daring me to call his bluff. Cocky asshole.

“The real question,” he said, “is if you can handle it.”

Double cocky asshole.

I set my bottle down, hand settling on my hip like I still had some control over how this was going to go.

“Fine,” I sniffed, haughty. “Show me.”

He didn’t hesitate.

One hand closed around my wrist—hot, firm, final—and before I could second-guess myself, he was pulling me into his lap like he had every right.

I sucked in a sharp breath, the only resistance I had left.

He settled me over his thigh—thick, hard, hot even through the denim—and I didn’t move away. I couldn’t.

Truthfully, I was beginning to wonder what else might be thick, hard, and hot beneath that denim.

“Last chance to back out,” he murmured, his breath brushing the shell of my ear.

Not a chance in hell.

He shifted under me, the muscle of his thigh flexing just enough to catch the seam of my jeans. Right against the part of me that was already aching.

I smiled—because fuck him—and ground down hard against his thigh.

“Do your worst.”

His hands clamped down on my hips, not rough, not yet, but solid enough that I knew: I wasn’t going anywhere unless he let me.

Oh fuck.

That first grind felt way too good.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, tightening his grip, dragging me forward until the pressure between my legs turned sharp. “I plan to.”

He started to move me, rocking my hips in a slow, relentless roll against his thigh.

The denim was thick, rough, perfect—pressing right where I needed it.

I rested my arms over his shoulders, doing my best to keep my composure. My jacket slid from my shoulders, but I barely noticed.

All I could feel was the scrape of thin cotton against my nipples—stiff, aching points under the tank top, no bra, no defense.

Stupid.

I’d been asking for it since the second I walked in here, and I knew it.

One hand stayed at my hip, keeping the rhythm. The other drifted higher. He palmed my breast, his thumb circling before closing over the tight peak and giving it a slow, merciless pinch.

I bit down on my lip, hard enough to sting, but the sound still leaked out—broken, humiliating.

I was already wet. Already pressing against him like some kind of desperate thing.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Grind on me just like that.”

His encouragement coiled low in my core.

Filthy. Hot. Demanding. Perfect.

No choice—working myself over the thick muscle of his thigh, denim biting, the rough seam dragging against my cunt.

Every shift made it worse—made me hungrier, hotter, messier.

He leaned in close, his breath a brand against my throat, his teeth grazing my skin in a way that made my whole body tighten.

No hands under my clothes. Still fully dressed. And I was already coming apart.

Losing. And he knew it.

His hand slid lower, gripping the back of my belt and yanking me forward, pressing me down harder—cruel.

“I can feel how hot your pussy is,” he murmured, teeth scraping along my jaw. “Bet you’re soaked already, aren’t you?”

I wanted to deny it.

Couldn’t.

The heat between my thighs seeped through the denim, damp and shameless.

He found the tender spot where my neck met my shoulder and bit—hard enough to make me whimper, breath hitching sharp and shallow.

He hummed low in his chest, satisfied, his smile a slow, cocky drag across my throat.

Wonder if he'd fuck my brains out...

“You can stop anytime,” he said, voice dark silk. “Oh wait—” he chuckled wickedly, “you can’t, can you?”

I tried to lift off his thigh—one last, pathetic grasp at dignity.

He let me move an inch. No more.

He grabbed my wrist, dragged it down, pressed my palm hard against the wetness in my crotch.

“Feel that?” he murmured. “That’s all you, sweetheart. That’s how bad you want it.”

I tried to pull away, but he held me there—let me seethe in my own slick.

“Go ahead,” he whispered, rough and low. “Walk away.”

But my body made the decision my mind refused to.

A slow, helpless rut. Working my hips in filthy, desperate circles against him.

His thigh tensed beneath me, shifting just enough to angle higher, harder, and he grabbed my ass.

He forced me to move, slow and relentless, dragging my soaked cunt over the seam of my jeans, pressing against my swollen, throbbing clit with bruising precision. I struggled against my small, choked sound of pleasure—and lost.

“Good girl,” he murmured, dragging me down harder. “Now come for me. Make a mess on my jeans.”

If the slow, incessant grind wasn't gonna get me there, his filthy mouth certainly did.

I broke—shaking, gasping into my fist, soaking the thick denim, my thighs quaking against his.

Every helpless, shuddering pulse ripped the last threads of pride from me, leaving me wrecked, ruined, panting in his lap.

He shifted under me, thigh flexing, pressing me deeper into the wet heat I’d made.

His grin was lazy, satisfied, wicked.

He leaned in, voice a dark, dangerous rasp against my ear.

“Next time you walk into my bar looking like that,” he murmured, “I’m bending you over and fucking you right here where everyone can watch.”