It was 2 PM, and the lunch rush had finally petered out.
The cafe felt like a ghost town now—just two stragglers hunched over their laptops in the corner booths, oblivious to the world. I was wiping down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time that shift, the rag picking up stray crumbs and coffee stains.
My mind was already halfway out the door, thinking about the bar gig starting at 7. A few hours of freedom in between, maybe hit the gym, grab a bite. But then MJ stretched her arms above her head, arching her back in that way she did when she knew I was watching.
It was intentional, no doubt—pushing her chest out just enough to make her shirt strain against the buttons. Damn, she knew how to play the game.
She glanced around the café, her green eyes scanning the room like she was checking for an audience.
Only those two customers, both lost in their screens.
Then she announced to no one in particular, her voice light with that sing-song lilt at the end, "Alright, I'm heading to the storage room to move some stuff around. If anyone wants to help me shift boxes, they can come help me out~."
Her tone was innocent enough for anyone else, but I caught the flick of her eyes toward me.
Just for a second, but it was there. That's my cue. Our little signal, honed over the past few weeks of sneaking around. I tossed the rag into the sink.
I turned to Marco, who was leaning against the wall near the back, scrolling through his phone like it held the secrets to the universe. The guy's always got that half-bored, half-exhausted look—divorce will do that to you, I guess.
"I'll clock out after helping her," I said, keeping it straightforward.
Marco barely looked up. "Uh-huh."
That's Marco for you. Doesn't care about much unless it's his next smoke break or dodging another call from his ex's lawyer. He's seen enough life to know when to mind his own business.
Works for me.
But Danny?
Oh, Danny was a whole different vibe. He perked up from where he was restocking the syrup bottles, his face lighting up as he'd just won the lotto.
"Don't worry," he said, stepping forward with that eager-puppy energy that always made me want to shake my head. "I'll help MJ. I can move the boxes—"
"No worries," I cut him off, my voice dropping low and deep. Saying back off without spelling it out. I straightened up, letting my 6'2" frame do some of the talking. "I got it."
Danny froze mid-step. His mouth opened like he was gearing up to argue, then snapped shut.
He swallowed hard, his eyes darting between me and the direction MJ had gone.
I could see the frustration bubbling under his skin, but he didn't push it.
Smart move.
The guy's 5'9" on a good day, skinny as a rail, probably hasn't lifted anything heavier than a laptop since high school.
Me? I've got the muscles from actual gym time.
I'm not trying to be a dick about it—I just don't have the patience for his interference right now.
Danny's had this crush on MJ since the second she walked through the door three weeks ago.
It's painfully obvious. The way he stumbles over his words when she asks him a simple question, how he always jumps to cover her shifts if she's running late from an audition, the lingering stares when he thinks no one's paying attention.
Poor bastard. He never stood a chance.
By the time he even thought about mustering up the courage to ask her out, MJ's mouth was already on my cock.
Not my problem if Danny's too shy to make a move. Life's tough like that.
I walked past him without another word, heading toward the storage room. I could feel his eyes boring into my back, all that pent-up frustration and helplessness radiating off him like heat from the espresso machine. But I didn't care.
Let him stew.
He'd tried to cockblock us a few times before, little passive-aggressive plays that never landed.
Like the time he complained to Mrs. Karen last month.
Yeah, I know it was him. No proof, but come on—the timing was too perfect.
Mrs. Karen had pulled me aside two weeks ago, her arms crossed over her chest, that permanent scowl etched deeper than usual.
She looked like she'd swallowed a lemon. "I've been hearing reports," she'd said, her voice all clipped and professional, "about you and Mary being... inappropriate during work hours. This isn't that kind of establishment, Rex."
I'd kept my cool, leaning against the counter like it was no big deal.
"Look, sales have been up fifteen percent since MJ, and I started here," I told her.
"Foot traffic's higher. Tips are rolling in better. Customers keep coming back—laughing at her jokes, sticking around for the vibe."
It was all true. MJ's got that charisma, the kind that draws people in.
Me? A lot of chicks had started to visit the cafe more often cause I worked here. Together, we're a good team. The place was busier than it'd been in months.
Mrs. Karen had grumbled, her eyes narrowing like she was searching for a comeback. But she didn't have one. She cared about the bottom line more than drama.
No firing.
Just a muttered warning about "professionalism" before she stormed off to count the till.
Danny must've been fuming when he heard she let it slide. I could picture him in the break room, staring at his phone, wondering why his little snitch move backfired. Must've eaten him up inside. Still does, I bet.
My thing with MJ isn't a relationship.
Not the kind with labels and expectations, anyway.
We're not dating. Not exclusive. We don't send "good morning" texts or plan cute dinners or any of that bullshit. What we are is... convenient.
She's buried under auditions, classes, rehearsals—stressed out of her mind trying to break into acting in a city that chews up dreamers like her for breakfast.
She needed an outlet.
And we both happen to be attracted to each other. So we hooked up. Simple. No strings. No drama. It works because we get it—we're not looking for more.
She's not after a boyfriend to hold her hand through the tough days, and I'm not in the market for a girlfriend who'd expect me to open up about my dead parents or my shitty hometown trauma.
We're just two people navigating this mess of a life, and if we can make each other feel good, why the hell not? That's the deal. And so far? It's holding up just fine.
This isn't the first time we've hooked up in the café.
Not even close. We've made out in the back corner booth after closing, the neon "Open" sign flickering off outside.
Fooled around in the kitchen when Marco was out on one of his endless smoke breaks.
Got caught twice—once by Danny, once by Marco.
Marco didn't bat an eye. Just muttered something under his breath about "young people and their hormones" and backed out quietly, lighting up another cigarette like it was all part of the routine. Guy's been through enough in his life—a nasty divorce, alimony payments that keep him chained to this job—that two coworkers getting frisky doesn't even register on his radar.
Danny, though? Danny cared. A lot.
The first time he walked in on us, MJ had her hand down my pants, and I had her pressed up against the counter in the dim after-hours light. His face went beet red, eyes wide as he'd stumbled into a live porn set.
He just stood there, frozen, his brain short-circuiting. We stopped what we were doing—MJ burst out laughing.
I didn't say a word, just stared him down until he stammered an apology and bolted. The second time, he tried to play it off like he needed something from the storage room, barging in with some lame excuse. But I just looked at him, my hand still on MJ's thigh, and he wilted. Backed off without saying anything.
He's pulled a few more stunts since then.
Scheduling mix-ups, volunteering for shifts that overlap with MJ's, even lingering around the back like he's on patrol.
None of it sticks. Because at the end of the day, Danny's too damn shy to actually do anything about his crush. He's been pining since day one—watching her from afar, building her up in his head like some unattainable goddess. But he's never had the guts to step up. And now? It's too late. She's with me in these stolen moments, and that's that.
The storage room's tucked at the back of the café, right behind the kitchen. It's a tiny space—barely ten feet by ten feet—crammed floor to ceiling with shelves of coffee beans in burlap sacks, boxes of napkins stacked haphazardly, cleaning supplies gathering dust, and all the random crap Mrs. Karen hoards like she's prepping for the end of the world.
The light's dim, just a single bare bulb swinging from a cord on the ceiling, casting long shadows over everything. The air's thick with that musty scent of old cardboard and spilled coffee grounds, but it's cut through with MJ's perfume. It always hits me first when I step in, pulling me right back to the last time we were here.
She's already inside when I push the door open, leaning against one of the shelves with her arms crossed, that familiar smirk playing on her lips. Her red hair's tied back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looks tired—dark circles under her eyes from late-night rehearsals—but there's that spark in her green eyes, the one that says she's ready to forget about it all for a bit.
"Took you long enough, Thrustmore," she says, tilting her head to the side, her voice laced with that teasing banter she loves. She always calls me by my last name when she's in a mood—like it's some inside joke. "Thought you'd bail on me for a 'cardio' session with some random chick from the gym."
I close the door behind me with a soft click, smirking right back as I step closer. The room feels even smaller with both of us in it, the shelves pressing.
"Wouldn't miss the 'red lace special' for anything," I reply, my voice low, matching her energy.
Her grin widens, lighting up her whole face. She pushes off the shelf and takes a step toward me, her eyes locked on mine with that playful intensity. "Come here, you hot son of a—"
She doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, she goes up on her toes, wrapping her arms around the back of my neck, and pulls me down into a kiss. I meet her halfway, one hand sliding to her waist, the other pressing against the small of her back, pulling her flush against me.
Her lips are soft and warm, tasting faintly like the mint gum she's been chewing all morning to stay fresh during the rush. I push my tongue into her mouth, and she responds immediately, her own tongue swirling against mine in that hungry, urgent dance we've gotten so good at.
She's 5'8", tall enough that she doesn't feel tiny next to me, but even on her toes, I still have to bend down to make it work.
My neck's at an awkward angle, and I can feel her stretching to reach, her body pressing harder against mine for balance. But neither of us cares—it's part of the thrill. After a few seconds of that, I fix the problem the way I always do. I bent down a bit more, grabbed her thighs with both hands, and lifted her effortlessly.
She gets the cue right away, wrapping her legs around my waist as I hoist her higher. Her back presses against the shelves behind her—I hear a soft rustle of boxes shifting, but nothing falls.
Good. The last thing we need is a crash alerting Danny or Marco. I shift my grip, sliding my hands down to her ass and giving it a firm squeeze.
Damn, MJ's got an ass that could keep a guy motivated even in this shitty economy—round, firm from all those dance classes she takes for her acting gigs.
We make out like that for another minute, her fingers tangling in my hair, tugging just enough to send a spark down my spine.
My hands knead her ass, feeling the heat of her through her skirt, her body grinding against mine in subtle rolls that make my jeans feel way too tight. She pulls back just enough to catch her breath, her chest heaving against mine, her green eyes half-lidded and hazy.
"God," she mutters, her voice a little breathless, a huff of air against my lips. "Acting's brutal. Another callback just ghosted me this morning. I prepared for days, nailed the lines in my head a hundred times, and... nothing. Can't think of a better way to let out the stress than this."
I set her down gently, my hands lingering on her hips, steadying her as her feet touch the floor.
She's been grinding hard lately—too hard for someone who just turned 20 last week.
We celebrated quietly at my place with cheap pizza, a movie, and a nice hard fuck.
Between this part-time gig, her theater classes, endless auditions, and late-night rehearsals—she barely has time to breathe.
I see it in the way her shoulders tense up during shifts, how she forces that bright smile for customers even when she's wiped out.
"I get it," I say, my voice low and steady, brushing a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. "The city's eating me alive, too. But moments like this? Worth it. They keep the bullshit at bay."
She smirks, her hands sliding down to the front of my shirt, fingers toying with the buttons like she's debating whether to rip them open.
"Worth it indeed." Her voice has that teasing edge again, pulling us back from the serious talk.
She unbuttons the top two buttons of her own shirt, doing it excruciatingly slowly, like she's putting on a private show just for me.
The fabric parts, revealing the smooth curve of her cleavage and the edge of that red lace bra she'd promised—the one I'd told her to get because it hugs her just right, sheer enough to tease without giving everything away.
I stare. Can't help it.
My eyes trace the lace, the way it contrasts against her pale skin, her nipples just hinting through the fabric.
She notices, of course—her smirk turning into a full, satisfied grin. Then her right hand drops lower, pressing firmly against the bulge straining against my jeans. The touch sends a jolt through me, and I groan low in my throat.
"But for now," she says, her voice dripping with that sultry tone she knows drives me crazy, squeezing just enough to make my breath hitch, "I'm gonna be the one to eat you up, Tiger."
.....
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