C(caution)W(warning: cnc,violence,mental illness, sexual assault, self-harm, abuse, gaslighting, misogyny, manipulation, mentions of death, crying, more crying, and more traumatic events
That is the warning I wish life had given me before i lived it all.
This is a place where I flush out all the bad thoughts in my mind if you need that to wlcome.
Summary: It’s closing time in the shitty bar where you bartend, a place that should’ve stayed empty. Then he walks in, and suddenly you’re not sure if you’re serving a customer or feeding a predator.
Wordcount: 11k
Part 2: HERE
Part 3: HERE
Part 4: HERE
Part 5: HERE
Part 6: HERE
Part 7: HERE
Part 8: HERE
The clock on the wall ticked like it was mocking you, its hands dragging toward midnight at a pace that made your eyelids heavy. The place had been dead for hours, and you’d already started asking yourself why you even bothered. This bar wasn’t the kind of spot people came for fun, it was the kind they stumbled into when they’d lost every better option. Sticky floors, dim yellow lights that hummed overhead, walls stained with decades of smoke. The kind of establishment that had seen more fights than happy hours.
But you kept working here anyway. Rent didn’t care if you hated it. Groceries didn’t buy themselves. And every extra shift you picked up meant a little more security, even if it was at the cost of your sanity. The tips weren’t great, but they added up, and at the end of the week, you told yourself it was worth it. You could put up with the drunks, the regulars with wandering hands, the stench of old beer that lingered in your hair. You could put up with it all, because you had to.
Tonight had been easier than most. Just a few patrons trickling in after work, keeping to themselves, disappearing into the night one by one until you were left with silence. For a while you let yourself believe you’d been spared - that you could close early, clean up fast, and go home. Your denim skirt clung a little tighter after hours of moving around, and the white top you’d chosen this morning had picked up faint streaks of dust and cleaner. You tied your hair back as best you could, scrubbing at the tables with a damp rag, dragging it across surfaces that never seemed to lose their tackiness.
The sound of chair legs scraping echoed through the empty bar as you stacked them, one after another, onto their tabletops. The routine was almost meditative: wipe, lift, stack. Your body moved on autopilot, your thoughts drifting toward what waited for you after this. The slow walk home, maybe a shower if you could keep your eyes open long enough, maybe just collapsing straight into bed.
The neon sign outside sputtered through the window, buzzing faintly, throwing uneven red light across the floor. You paused, letting your gaze linger on it, and thought - not for the first time - that the damn thing might outlast the bar itself.
And then the door opened.
It wasn’t loud. Just the creak of hinges, the faint gust of night air curling in. But in the silence you’d built for yourself, it sounded sharp, splitting through the stillness like glass.
You froze, rag in hand, turning toward the sound.
He filled the doorway before you could even process the fact that someone had actually come in this late. Broad shouldered, built like he carried weight that had nothing to do with the worn flannel shirt stretched across his frame. His jeans hung low on his hips, scuffed and dusty from a long day, and his boots struck the floor with a heavy finality as he stepped inside.
For a moment, he just stood there, his expression unreadable. His eyes scanned the room, slow and careful, before landing on you.
He looked… startled, almost. Not what he’d expected. But he didn’t show it the way most men did - no sheepish grin, no attempt at charm. Just a subtle tightening in his jaw, a flicker in his eyes, like your presence here shifted something in his head.
And suddenly you were aware of how alone you were. How empty the bar was except for the two of you.
Your pulse kicked up, quick and uneven, and you hated the way it betrayed you. He hadn’t said a word yet, hadn’t even moved beyond the threshold, and still there was something about him that pressed against the air, heavy and unignorable. Intimidating, yes, but there was something else under it too. Something quieter, something you couldn’t name.
You straightened instinctively, rag forgotten in your hand, trying to act like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the last thing you’d expected tonight.
The bar was silent, save for the faint hum of the neon light.
And he was watching you.
His boots carried him further inside, heavy steps dragging across the worn floorboards. He didn’t rush, he moved like someone who knew he owned every second you spent watching him. When he finally opened his mouth, his voice was low, rough around the edges in the way cigarettes and long days could carve into a man.
“Hey,” he said, that half-smirk already tugging at his mouth. “You’re not closin’ up yet, are you?”
The words hit the silence with a lazy confidence, like he knew damn well you were. Like he’d seen you stacking chairs and wiping tables and just decided it didn’t matter - that if he wanted to drink, you’d pour him one.
Your grip on the rag tightened. Your pulse was thudding harder now, betraying you in your chest and throat, but you forced your shoulders to stay loose. You didn’t want him to see the way he threw you off balance, not when his gaze already lingered like he’d caught something in you worth prodding.
“It’s late,” you managed, your voice steady even if your stomach wasn’t. “Most people are already home by now.”
He tilted his head a little, as though considering that, his smirk deepening just enough to feel deliberate. His eyes swept the room again - empty, quiet, just you and him - before landing right back on you.
“Guess that makes me the exception,” he said, shrugging out of the chill of the night as though it were nothing. His tone was almost teasing, but there was weight beneath it. An edge that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise.
He leaned one hand against the bar top, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his flannel, and for a second you swore he was taking up all the space in the room.
He sat down in the bar chair, eyes running over the place as if taking inventory. But it wasn’t the room he was studying.
It was you.
You felt the weight of his gaze before you met it, dragging over you like he had the right. From the line of your throat to the denim skirt riding mid-thigh, to the way your legs shifted as you moved, his eyes caught on every detail. It was invasive, unashamed, and when you caught him looking, he didn’t look away.
The rag in your hand suddenly felt useless. You tossed it aside, reaching for the bar towel instead, trying to busy yourself, anything to keep your hands from trembling.
“You want a drink?” you asked, your voice steady only because you forced it to be.
His smirk deepened, like he’d been waiting for you to break the silence. “That’s why I came in, sweetheart.” The pet name rolled off his tongue with an easy confidence, like he knew it would catch in your chest.
You ducked behind the bar, fingers brushing against the familiar chill of the tap handle. Anything to keep yourself moving, to keep your hands busy. He hadn’t taken his eyes off you, and that weight pressed harder with every second of silence stretching between you.
“What’ll it be?” you asked, though you already had a guess.
“Beer,” he said simply, like there wasn’t another option in the world.
You nodded, tugging at the tap. Amber liquid foamed into the glass, the hiss of carbonation filling the room. The sound felt too loud in the silence, like even the bar itself had tuned in to the moment. You focused on the flow, on getting the pour right, anything to stop yourself from looking up at the man watching you like he had all night to waste on your unease.
When the glass was full, you slid it across the counter, smooth but careful. He leaned forward to meet it, and that was when you caught it, the faintest trace of cologne under the sharper bite of cigarettes and cold air. Clean, woody, the kind of scent that didn’t belong in a place like this. It hit you before you could brace yourself, threading through your senses and rooting there, unwanted.
Your breath caught, but you recovered quickly, reaching for a towel, fussing with a damp ring on the counter that didn’t matter.
He lifted the beer, studying it for a second before taking a slow pull. Foam clung to his lip, gone with a swipe of his tongue, and then he was settling back in the chair, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
The strike of his lighter was sharp, sparking flame into the low light. He took his time, drawing smoke into his lungs like ritual, exhaling with a lazy curl that drifted toward the ceiling.
Without a word, you crouched, pulled an old glass ashtray from beneath the counter, and slid it across to him. He caught it without looking, tapping ash against the edge like it was second nature.
Smoke curled upward, pale ribbons twisting into the dim air, settling over the stale scent of beer and cleaner. He drew in slow, like he had nowhere else to be, and exhaled with the kind of satisfaction that made your skin prickle.
You busied yourself with the towel in your hand, swiping it over a section of the counter that was already clean. It gave you something to do, something to look at that wasn’t him. Still, your eyes betrayed you, flicking up when you thought you could get away with it.
He was watching you.
The realization hit when your gaze collided with his - steady, unwavering, the faintest shadow of amusement in his eyes like he’d been waiting for you to slip. Heat rose to your face, and you quickly broke away, pretending to focus on a stubborn mark on the wood grain.
Your heart knocked against your ribs. You told yourself it was nothing. Just a man. Just a customer. But the silence stretched heavy, the air between you buzzing with something you couldn’t name.
You tried again not to look, but your eyes wandered anyway - down the thick line of his forearm where it rested against the bar, veins raised, muscles shifting beneath tanned skin. The sleeve pulled tight across him, cuff rolled lazily at the elbow. Broad, strong. Too strong.
That’s when you saw it.
Dark smudges, irregular and rust-dark, staining the fabric near his elbow. Blood.
Your breath caught, but you forced yourself to think rationally. Hunting. That had to be it. Everyone knew this town was crawling with them, men coming back from the woods with fresh kills, talking deer season and rifles. The thick tree line wasn’t more than a mile out. It made sense. It had to.
You made yourself move again, folding the towel neatly, pretending it wasn’t a big deal. Casual. You had to sound casual.
“Busy season for you guys, huh?” you said, your voice deliberately light. You leaned against the bar, like this was just a passing conversation. “Deer are running heavy this year.”
For the first time, he blinked like you’d thrown him off balance. Just for a second, his brow furrowed as though he hadn’t followed. Then his gaze dropped to the stains on his shirt and it clicked for him - the change in his face was instant. His lips curved into a slow grin, smoke curling from between his teeth as he exhaled.
You felt your pulse trip over itself.
“Ah,” he said, his tone rich with amusement. “Yeah. Busy season.” He leaned back in his chair, spreading his knees comfortably, like he’d just settled into the role you’d written for him. “You could say I bagged more than I planned.”
The words were casual, but the way he said them made your chest tighten. He was enjoying this.
You swallowed, forcing your voice steady. “What’re you using? Rifle? Bow?”
“Rifle,” he said without hesitation, as if he’d rehearsed it. “.308. Reliable.” He flicked ash into the tray, eyes glittering with something sharp as they stayed fixed on you. “Gets the job done clean.”
The towel twisted in your hands, soft against your palms. He was playing along too easily, too smoothly. Like he knew exactly what you were doing - grasping for normalcy, for an explanation that didn’t leave you alone in a bar with a man wearing someone else’s blood.
“Bet the woods are packed on weekends,” you tried again, softer now.
His smirk deepened, painfully smug, like he could feel every beat of your nervous heart. He leaned forward on his elbows, the cigarette burning low between his fingers.
“Not where I go,” he murmured. “I like the quiet spots. Less competition.”
The words landed heavy between you, their edge unmistakable, even under the guise of hunter’s talk. He knew you were nervous. And he was letting you know he knew.
He took another slow drag of his cigarette, tapping the ash into the tray with lazy precision. His gaze stayed on you, sharp and glinting with amusement, like he’d already guessed the next question you were too afraid to ask.
“Truth is,” he said finally, voice low and gravelly, “I don’t always bother with rifles.” He leaned back in his chair, one arm stretched across it, the other holding his cigarette as though he had all the time in the world. “Sometimes I like to get in close. Slaughter it myself.”
The corner of his mouth twitched up into that smug half-smile, eyes gleaming with something darker as he let the words settle.
“Nothing like a good axe,” he added, almost thoughtfully, like it was a personal confession.
Your stomach tightened. The air between you felt heavier now, his voice coiling around you like smoke. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your face steady, trying to let the hunter excuse hold even as your pulse thundered against your ribs.
But then, just as quickly, he shifted. The danger smoothed over into something else - still sharp, but warmer, almost teasing. He crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray, leaned forward onto the bar, and let that rough, lived-in voice drop lower.
“Course,” he drawled, smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, “not everything I do’s so brutal.” His eyes dragged over you, lingering shamelessly, that hungry edge mixing with something almost playful. “I know how to be… careful when I want to be.”
Heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it. You ducked your head slightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear like it was nothing. Casual. Normal. But you knew he saw it - the faint blush creeping over your skin, the little tell you couldn’t hide.
His gaze followed the movement, trailing down past your hand, past your collarbone, settling openly, brazenly, at the neckline of your shirt. He didn’t look away, didn’t even pretend. His eyes lingered on the swell of cleavage as though he had every right, every ounce of patience to take you apart piece by piece with just his stare.
And when his eyes finally climbed back to yours, that grin was still there - like he’d caught you in the act of reacting to him, and he wasn’t about to let you forget it.
He leaned back again, beer glass in hand, tilting it lazily before taking a long swallow. When he set it down, his eyes never left you - steady, sharp, drinking you in the way most men drained their drinks.
“So tell me,” he drawled, voice low and unhurried. “What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ workin’ in a dump like this?”
The words landed heavy, threaded with a hint of genuine curiosity but wrapped in something far more deliberate. His gaze lingered on your face, waiting, savoring.
Heat prickled at the back of your neck. You smoothed your hand over the countertop, careful, casual, anything to ground yourself. “Work’s work,” you said, forcing your voice to stay even. “Doesn’t matter where it is.”
He smirked at that, clearly unconvinced, clearly entertained. “Sure it does. Pretty thing like you? You could get hired anywhere. Don’t tell me this bar’s the best you could do.”
You felt your throat tighten. He was baiting you - pushing to see how much you’d give away, how much ground you’d let him take. You tried to hold the line, keep your distance.
“Pays the bills,” you said shortly, shrugging like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t personal.
His grin deepened, his eyes dragging over your face, down to the faint blush creeping across your cheeks. He leaned in slightly, elbows on the bar now, close enough that you caught the faint mix of smoke and cologne again.
“Mm,” he murmured, eyes glinting with smug amusement. “Pays the bills. And here I thought you just liked makin’ men sweat while you poured their drinks.”
Your breath caught, and you hated the way the flush on your face deepened, betraying you. His smirk widened as if that was exactly the reaction he’d been fishing for.
“You get real careful when you talk,” he said, almost lazily, like he was just musing to himself. “Like you’re scared of slippin’ up. Makes me wonder what you’re hidin’, sweetheart.”
He sat back again, satisfied. And you knew without a doubt he was enjoying this. Enjoying every flicker of caution in your voice, every trace of color in your cheeks, every careful little move you made to keep him at arm’s length.
You wiped the same patch of counter for the third time, towel moving in nervous circles that didn’t fool either of you. The clock over the door ticked past the hour, sharp and accusing. You should’ve been home already. Should’ve had the chairs stacked, lights out, the keys turning in the lock.
Instead, you were here - still under the weight of his gaze, still trying to keep your composure while your skin prickled with unease.
You cleared your throat softly, folding the towel against your palm. “It’s late, sir,” you said, keeping your tone polite, careful. “I really should close up soon.”
The word slipped out before you could stop it - sir. It had been automatic, the way you sometimes spoke to pushy regulars. A little formality to keep things smooth, to remind them there were rules.
But the moment it left your lips, his smirk sharpened.
“Sir?” he echoed, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the bar. His voice dipped into that lazy drawl again, rough around the edges but dripping with amusement. “You don’t think I’m that old, do you?”
The heat that rushed to your face betrayed you instantly. You opened your mouth, stammered for a denial, but nothing came out fast enough. His grin deepened, smug and unhurried, like he was savoring the sight of you flustered.
He shook his head slowly, like you’d just handed him the easiest win in the world. “Hell, sweetheart… I’m not that much older than you.” He let his eyes drag over you again. “Though I gotta admit - I don’t mind hearin’ it from your mouth.”
Your throat went dry. He leaned back in his chair, casual, blue-collar confidence radiating from every line of him.
And he wasn’t moving.
The clock ticked again, loud and accusing, and your heart thudded in your chest.
He swirled the last of his beer in the glass, eyes fixed on you with that same unreadable intensity. Then his lips curved again.
“Y’know,” he said, voice rough with amusement, “I’m starting to wonder what else that sweet mouth of yours can call me.”
The words hit like a spark in dry grass. Your face burned instantly, blood rushing to your cheeks, your pulse stuttering hard in your throat. Men flirted with you all the time here - sloppy, slurred compliments, empty promises, greasy pickup lines. But this… this was different. There was nothing clumsy about him. He said it like fact. Like he already knew the reaction it would drag out of you.
You opened your mouth, searching for something, anything, to say back. But the words stuck. Your tongue tripped over itself, your throat too dry, and all that came out was a faint, breathless noise that wasn’t even an answer.
His grin widened just enough to show he’d noticed.
You hated how easy he made it sound. How the words rolled off his tongue without hesitation, smooth and sharp all at once. Was he always like this? Always so sure of himself, so steady in the way he spoke - like he’d never once had to second-guess?
The audacity of him, walking in here at closing time, drinking your beer, pinning you down with that stare, and still acting like the room belonged to him. Like you belonged to him.
And yet, even as irritation flickered hot in your chest, another part of you was already unraveling - under the weight of that voice, the way his grin hooked like he’d already won.
Then, without another word, he stood. The chair scraped against the floorboards as he rose to his full height, and suddenly he was bigger, heavier in the room than he’d been before. Your breath hitched as you watched him cross the floor in long, unhurried strides.
Straight to the door.
You blinked, frozen, as he reached for the lock. The heavy click echoed in the silence, followed by the squeak of the little hanging sign as he flipped it to CLOSED.
Your chest tightened.
He turned slightly, the dim light catching on the broad lines of his shoulders beneath the plaid, the roll of his sleeves exposing forearms roped with muscle. His jeans clung low on his hips, worn from use, his frame filling the doorway like he’d been built to take up space. Dark hair fell into his eyes as he glanced back at you, and the weight of his stare made your knees feel unsteady.
Your voice finally broke free, thin and trembling despite your best effort. “I’m–” you swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, what are you doing?”
The words sounded weak even to your own ears, like a protest that didn’t quite make it out. And you hated the way your heart pounded harder for it - fear and something else tangled together in your chest as you watched him lean one hand against the doorframe, casual as ever, like he’d just made himself at home.
“You’re too damn pretty for me to let you go home just yet,” he said matter-of-factly, like he was pointing out the weather. His voice was low, rough, leaving no room for argument. “I’m not done.”
Your throat went dry. You fumbled for something, anything to break the weight of his stare. “Do you… want another beer?” you asked carefully, your voice thin and uncertain.
For a beat, silence. Then a sound, deep and warm and amused. He chuckled, shaking his head as though you’d just told him a joke.
“Cute,” he drawled, straightening away from the door. His boots struck the floor heavy as he came back toward his seat. He leaned against the back of the chair, casual and unhurried, that cigarette-rough voice dripping with amusement. “But that ain’t what I want.”
He tilted his head toward you, eyes glinting. “Get over here.”
The words rooted you in place for a second, your chest tight, pulse hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it. A dozen options flashed through your mind - bolting for the door, screaming, fumbling for your phone - but you knew how each one would end. He’d catch you easily, you had no car nearby, and at this hour no one outside would hear a thing. The phone lay useless in your bag, too far to matter.
And besides… this wasn’t like dealing with the usual drunk stragglers you chased out at closing time. He was different. Dangerous, probably, but the way he was watching you sent a heat curling through your stomach you didn’t want to admit to. He was attractive in a way that made your nerves spark, and that look in his eyes… it made you feel something you weren’t sure you wanted to feel.
But your legs carried you anyway, slow, reluctant, until you stepped out from behind the bar. The room suddenly felt too open, too quiet, every movement amplified.
You stopped a few feet in front of him, just outside of reach, arms folded instinctively in front of yourself like that thin shield might be enough.
His eyes swept over you again, unhurried, taking in the way you stood, the nervous set of your shoulders, the way your breath caught in your chest.
And he smiled like this was exactly where he wanted you.
His eyes stayed locked on yours, steady, unreadable, until his mouth curved into that smug little half-smile again.
“Closer,” he said, his voice rough and low, like gravel catching in his throat.
Your heart hammered so hard it almost hurt. Every instinct told you to keep the distance, to hold your ground - but your body betrayed you. Slowly, hesitantly, you stepped forward until the space between you all but vanished.
Almost between his legs now, you had to tip your head back to meet his gaze. The faint scent of him closed in around you - smoke and cologne and something warmer, distinctly him. Heat radiated off his body, thick and undeniable, and every breath you drew felt like it was caught between the two of you.
For a moment he didn’t touch you, just let the weight of his presence settle heavy against your nerves. Then, slowly, his hand came to rest at your hip.
The warmth of his palm seeped through the fabric of your skirt, steady, grounding, and then his hand slid lower. His thumb brushed against the bare skin just beneath the hem of denim, rough skin against soft, a feather-light graze that sent a shiver sparking up your spine.
Your breath hitched sharply.
“Call me sir again,” he murmured, voice edged with command, though it came out smooth, almost coaxing.
Your chest rose and fell too fast, lungs straining against the air between you. You forced yourself to meet his gaze - those steady, intent eyes that never wavered - and something in you cracked under it. The word left your lips in a shaky exhale, softer than you intended but undeniable.
“…Sir.”
For a beat, silence. His thumb pressed just a little firmer against your skin, and his smirk deepened, dark and satisfied.
“Good girl,” he said, quiet but certain, the words sinking into you with a weight that left your pulse stumbling all over again.
His hand tightened on your thigh, rough palm burning against your soft skin. He leaned down just enough that his breath brushed your ear, voice low, every word like gravel against your nerves.
“You’re gonna listen to me now,” he said. Not a question - a fact. “You’re gonna stand there, let me touch you how I want. Be a sweetheart and don’t make me bring in the axe I was telling you about. You hear me?”
Your breath hitched, your body rooted in place. The words made your stomach clench, fear sparking with something heavier, something that made your thighs press together without thinking.
You swallowed hard, a tiny nod slipping out before you could stop it. “Mhm.” The sound was thin, fragile, but it carried.
He pulled back just enough to catch your gaze, steady, unyielding. His expression didn’t soften, if anything, it sharpened, like he was savoring the way you fought yourself.
“You’re not leaving till I’m done with you,” he continued, voice a low rasp. “And when I tell you to open those pretty thighs, you’re gonna do it. When I tell you to beg, you’re gonna do it. That’s how this is gonna go.”
You swallowed hard, your throat dry, pulse thrumming against your ribs. His hand left your thigh, dragging slow up your side, and then his fingers tipped your chin up, not gently, but firmly, holding you in place.
His thumb brushed your bottom lip once before his two fingers pressed against your mouth, steady, insistent.
“Open,” he ordered.
Your lips parted before your brain caught up, and he slid his fingers between them, pressing past your teeth, letting them rest heavy on your tongue. The taste of him was salt and smoke, rough skin against wet heat.
“So good for me,” he muttered, eyes locked on yours, unwavering. “Now listen close.” His voice dropped even lower, a command and a promise all at once. “I’m gonna use this mouth first. Then I’m gonna bend you over that bar you love so much and fuck you raw ‘til you can’t walk straight.”
The words sank deep, burning, and your knees almost buckled. You whimpered softly around his fingers, shame and nerves tangling so tightly you couldn’t breathe.
His grin curved darker at the sound, thumb brushing your cheek as his fingers pressed further onto your tongue. “Understand?”
Your eyes stung with heat, chest tight, and all you could do was nod - slowly, shakily, with his hand holding your face in place.
“Good.” he rasped, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pulled his fingers free with a wet sound, his gaze never leaving yours.
You blinked hard, and a single hot tear slipped free, cutting down your cheek before you could stop it. He saw it instantly.
For a heartbeat, his hand shifted, his thumb brushing it away in a slow drag across your skin. The touch was almost tender, almost gentle - but the smirk tugging at his mouth ruined any illusion of kindness. He wasn’t comforting you. He was savoring the way you trembled.
“Mm,” he hummed, low in his chest. “That’s better. Pretty when you cry.”
Your stomach flipped, breath stuttering, but his hand never left your face. His thumb lingered at your cheek, tilting your head up so you couldn’t look away from him.
“Now,” he said evenly, voice rough with command. “Be a good little slut…”
His smirk deepened, teeth flashing as his gaze dropped deliberately to the floor between you, then back to your wide, glassy eyes.
“…and get on your knees for me.”
The words landed heavy, leaving no room for argument. Your pulse thundered, every nerve screaming at once - but your legs folded under you anyway. You sank down slow, the scuffed floor cool beneath your knees, the weight of his stare burning hotter than anything else.
He watched you settle there, looming over you with his broad shoulders filling the space, hands resting loose at his sides like he owned the room. His grin sharpened as he looked down at you, crouched and trembling, right where he wanted you.
“Good girl,” he rasped again, approval curling through every syllable. His hand dropped to your hair, rough fingers threading in, gripping just enough to remind you who was in control. “Knew you’d learn quick.”
He didn’t rush. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your head tilted back so you had no choice but to watch. With his free hand, he reached for his belt, the sharp clink of the buckle loud in the silence.
Your chest heaved as he tugged the leather loose. His smirk never wavered, his eyes locked on your face like he was watching every flicker of fear, every flush of heat run through you.
“Yeah,” he drawled, voice low, rough. “On your knees where you belong.”
The sound of his zipper rasped, and then he freed his cock, thick and heavy in his hand. He stroked himself once, slow, right in front of you, just to make your breath hitch harder.
His cock was big and the sheer weight of it in his fist made your mouth water, a rush of heat flooding low in your belly as you watched him stroke himself.
“Open,” he ordered. His grip in your hair tightened, firm but not cruel, guiding your head closer.
Your lips parted automatically, trembling as you obeyed. He pressed the tip against your mouth, smearing pre-come across your lips before pushing past them, his jaw tightening when the heat of your tongue wrapped around him.
“So obedient,” he groaned, voice breaking rough as he guided you down, hand at the back of your head controlling the pace. “Goddamn, look at you, taking me so well already.”
He held you there a beat, savoring the sight of your lips stretched around him, then eased you back just to drive forward again, slow but insistent. Each push and pull left your throat burning, your eyes watering, and his approval rumbling deep in his chest.
“That’s it,” he praised, his grip tightening as he set the rhythm. “Nice and deep. Don’t fight it.”
You gagged softly when he slid further, and his smirk only grew. His thumb brushed your cheek almost tenderly again, wiping away another tear that spilled down, then his voice dropped, dark and satisfied.
“Messy already,” he muttered. “Prettiest fuckin’ sight I’ve ever seen.”
Every sound you made, every twitch of your throat around him, dragged another groan out of his chest. His hips moved with slow thrusts, his belt hanging loose at his waist, jeans low on his hips, every inch of him radiating that raw control.
And all you could do was kneel there, trembling under his hand, his voice low and commanding above you, until the world narrowed down to his grip, his approval, and the taste of him filling your mouth.
His grip in your hair tightened, and suddenly his thrusts lost that measured patience. He drove harder, rougher, each push forcing a muffled gag from your throat, spit slicking your chin as tears streamed hot down your cheeks.
“Yeah,” he groaned, breath ragged, hips snapping into you. “Take it. Take all of me.”
Your hands clawed weakly at his thighs, and the sound of your choking whimpers only seemed to drive him further. His muscles flexed beneath your touch, his broad frame towering over you, every motion heavy and commanding.
Then, just as suddenly, he wrenched you back. His cock slipped free from your mouth with a wet, messy gasp, spit glistening across your lips and chin. You coughed, chest heaving, your whole body trembling as he yanked you up onto shaky legs.
The chair scraped behind him as he pulled you flush against his chest, one hand still fisted in your hair, tilting your head back so you had to meet his sharp, burning stare.
“Now,” he growled, rough voice vibrating in your ears. “Aren’t you gonna thank me?”
You blinked through wet lashes, lips red and swollen, voice wrecked and desperate. “Th-thank you…”
He tugged your hair tighter, forcing a whimper out of you. “Now you can do better than that. C’mon, again.”
“Thank you, sir,” you whispered, nodding frantically, your words breaking into little hums as you tried to prove yourself. “Mhm– thank you…”
His smirk widened, like your messy obedience was exactly what he wanted to see. “So good for me,” he murmured, thumb swiping saliva from your cheek before dragging it down over your lip.
Then his hand left your hair, dropping to your hip, rough fingers curling under the hem of your denim skirt. He gave it a sharp tug downward, voice low and commanding.
“Take it off.”
Your breath caught, but you obeyed, fumbling with the button and shimmying the fabric down your thighs until it pooled at your feet.
“Now the top.” His eyes dragged over you, hungry, unyielding.
With trembling hands you pulled the white cotton over your head, baring the curve of your body beneath. Left in nothing but your underwear, you stood in front of him half-naked, chest rising and falling too fast, his gaze burning over every inch.
He leaned back slightly, broad arms folding as he looked you over like a man admiring his prize, that smirk still carved into his mouth.
“Better,” he muttered, satisfied. “Much better.”
His eyes raked over you one more time, then without warning his hands gripped your waist. You let out a sharp gasp as he lifted you off the ground, the sheer strength in the move making your stomach drop. He set you on the bar top with a heavy thud, spreading your thighs effortlessly between his hips.
“W-wait—” you stammered, but your protest melted into a breathy whimper when his body pressed between your legs.
Before you could catch your breath, he was shrugging out of his flannel. The fabric hit the floor, and for the first time you saw him bare chested.
Broad shoulders, chest thick with muscle, his skin mapped with scars both faded and fresh. Scratches, bruises, jagged marks that spoke of fights you couldn’t imagine. Your eyes lingered too long on a particularly dark scar that cut across his ribs, words catching in your throat.
He caught the look, and his mouth twisted into a crooked grin. “Yeah,” he rasped, voice low and steady, “this is what a hunter’s body looks like.”
The words slammed straight back to the moment you’d seen blood on his shirt and guessed at his job - the hunters who prowled the town this time of year. You swallowed, nerves prickling. “I-I…” you tried, but whatever you meant to say vanished when his lips crushed against yours.
The kiss was hungry, desperate, claiming. His mouth moved hard on yours, the scrape of stubble burning your skin. You gasped into him, the sound breaking high and needy, and he swallowed it down like he’d been starving.
One strong hand braced against your lower back, pulling you flush against his chest, while the other slipped deftly behind you. His fingers worked your bra clasp with practiced skill, and the strap snapped free before you even realized he’d undone it. Your bra fell to the ground and his hands found your tits immediately.
He groaned low into your mouth as his calloused hands cupped them, his fingers pinching your nipples until you whined into the kiss. The sound was embarrassingly loud, but you couldn’t bite it back - not when sparks shot straight through you with every pinch. His touch was rough, hungry, but so sure of itself it made your head spin.
“Fuck…” he muttered against your lips, squeezing you in his palms like he never wanted to let go. “Knew you’d be perfect under my hands.”
His broad frame crowded between your thighs, heat radiating off him as he pressed you further on the bar. His mouth still claimed yours in a bruising kiss, tongue demanding, stealing every shaky breath you tried to take.
Then you felt his hand drag down, rough fingers slipping beneath the band of your panties like it was nothing. Your eyes went wide, lips parting on a gasp - but before you could speak, he was already sliding between your folds.
His fingers came away slick, and you whimpered against his mouth. He groaned low in approval, like the discovery turned him on even more.
“Christ,” he muttered against your lips, his smirk brushing your mouth as he pushed your panties to the side before sliding two thick fingers inside without warning. “You’re soaked for me already. Knew you would be.”
You broke from the kiss with a sharp cry, hands flying to grip his wrist as his fingers drove deep. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His strong arm held steady, pushing into the knuckle before dragging back out, relentless and sure, like he knew exactly how to make you fall apart.
“Feel that?” he rasped, curling his fingers just right, his grin widening as your thighs quivered around him.
Your head tipped back, a loud, broken moan tearing out of you before you could stop it. “Y-yes–oh God, yes–” The words spilled raw from your lips, high and needy.
His mouth immediately chased yours again, swallowing the sound. His kiss was just as rough as the way he worked his hand inside you - deep, unyielding, his free hand gripping your thigh tight enough to bruise as he kept you spread wide for him.
“So fucking wet,” he growled into your mouth, fucking his fingers deeper. “Take it. Let me hear you.”
The wet, obscene squelch of his fingers filled the empty barroom, every thrust louder than it had any right to be in the silence. Your face burned, mortification and pleasure tangling so tight in your chest you thought you might break.
“Fuck, hear that?” he muttered against your lips, voice thick with satisfaction. “Dripping all over my hand.”
You whimpered, trying to bury your sound in his mouth, and he only kissed you harder, swallowing every helpless moan as his fingers plunged deeper, faster.
Then, without pause, he pushed in a third finger. Your body arched off the bar, eyes flying open, a broken cry tearing from your throat. Before you could catch your breath, a fourth pressed in, stretching you so full you thought you’d come apart on the spot.
Your hands clawed at his arm, shaking, but he only groaned in approval, his grip on your thigh tightening as he kept you spread wide, kept you exactly where he wanted you.
“Too much, sweetheart?” he asked, tone mockingly gentle, almost sweet - but his smirk said otherwise. His fingers drove in hard, curling deep, ignoring the tears threatening your lashes.
You tried to form words, but all that came out was a wrecked moan into his mouth. Your nods were frantic, messy, desperate - you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to.
“Use your words,” he coaxed, dragging the sound out of you. “Tell me. Feels good, don’t it?”
Your lips trembled against his, voice breaking on the words as they spilled out breathless, helpless.
“Y-yes… so good, fuck–yes…”
The smirk curved sharp against your mouth, his chest rumbling with a pleased groan as his fingers pumped ruthlessly inside you.
“Good,” he growled, dragging another whimper from your lips. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Your whole body locked up, trembling under his grip as his fingers slammed deep. The wet squelch echoed through the bar, and then it hit you - too much, too fast.
Your cry broke sharp against his mouth as you came undone on his hand, your walls clenching hard around his fingers. He held you down with one big palm flat on your thigh, forcing you to ride it out while the wave crashed over you.
Hot wetness gushed free, splattering against his hand and dripping down onto the bar top beneath you. You gasped, but his chuckle cut you off.
“That’s it,” he groaned, curling his fingers just right until you nearly screamed. “Fuckin’ perfect. Look at the mess you made for me.”
Tears threatened to spill down your cheeks as you collapsed against him, wrecked and shivering, but he wasn’t finished. His soaked fingers slipped free and immediately caught your chin, smearing slick across your lips before shoving past them.
“Open,” he ordered, pressing his fingers deep on your tongue. “Be a good girl and lick ‘em clean.”
You whimpered, humiliated, but obeyed, sucking your own slick from his thick fingers while his eyes burned into yours. His grin only widened as he pulled them free with a wet pop.
“Just like that sweetheart,” he drawled, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. “Bet that tasted real sweet huh?”
Then his other hand was back between your thighs, prying them wider. He spread your legs apart, exposing you, sticky and dripping across the wooden counter. You squirmed, but his grip was iron.
He leaned in close, his breath hot at your ear, and let out a low laugh. “Y’know,” he said, rough amusement in his tone, “you’re gonna need to wipe down this counter again after that little show. Filthy thing.”
Your face burned, your chest heaving, and all you could do was moan, your body still twitching in his hold.
He didn’t wait. His hand yanked your panties down further in one rough motion, the fabric sliding off your thighs completely and pooling on the ground. His grip was firm as he yanked you down from the counter and spun you around with ease, pressing your front down against the sticky bar top. The wood was cool against your overheated skin, your breath shaky as his weight loomed heavy at your back.
“Bend over for me,” he ordered, and your body obeyed before your mind could catch up.
His broad hands gripped your hips, pulling you back until you arched perfectly for him. A sharp tug on his zipper, the heavy sound of denim shifting, and then the thick head of his cock pressed against your slick, stretched entrance.
He didn’t give you time to plead. With a single hard thrust, he pushed inside, burying himself to the hilt.
You cried out, knuckles white where you clutched the bar’s edge, your body stretching around him as his chest rumbled low against your back.
“Fuck,” he growled, his breath hot against your neck as he held you there, filled to the brim. “Tight little pussy, knew you’d feel like this.”
His hips drew back, then slammed forward again, the impact rattling the bottles still lined up behind the counter. He set a pace heavy and brutal, every thrust forcing another broken moan from your lips as he drove you into the bar with overwhelming strength.
The first thrust stole your breath, the second knocked a cry straight out of your chest. By the third, you could barely think. He was everywhere - deep, hard, relentless, pounding into you like he meant to break the bar beneath you.
It was too much. Too hard. Too raw. And yet your body clung to him, every inch of you shuddering with each snap of his hips.
His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arched and your throat was bared for him. His breath seared hot against your neck as he growled low, almost laughing at the way you gasped beneath him.
“That’s it,” he rasped, thrusting harder, his voice rough with satisfaction. “Take it. Take all of me.”
His other hand roamed over you without pause, squeezing your tits, sliding down your waist, gripping your hip in a bruising hold. Then a sharp smack cracked across your ass, making you yelp and clench tight around him. His low groan rumbled against your ear, his cock driving even deeper.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, almost breathless himself. “So tight, so fucking good. All mine.”
You whimpered, tears blurring your vision as his pace only grew harsher.
“Say it,” he growled, tugging your hair harder, forcing your head back until you could feel his teeth scrape the edge of your jaw. “Thank me for using you like this.”
The words shook through you, shame and need twisting together, your voice breaking as it spilled out of you between ragged moans.
“Th-thank you–” you sobbed, your body jerking helplessly against the bar as his thrusts drove you forward. “Thank you for–ahhh–thank you…”
His grip tightened on your hip, dragging you back onto him with every rough thrust, his chest pressed to your back, sweat slick between you.
“Such a good fuckin’ girl,” he groaned, his teeth catching your skin, one hand squeezing your ass before smacking it again, harder this time. “Keep thanking me. Don’t stop. Say it, say thank you Tim.”
Your whole body jolted at the name, the word hitting you harder than the slap had. Tim. You hadn’t known it until now, and the sound of it rasped in your ear while he split you open made your pulse spike, made your chest squeeze with something you didn’t have time to untangle.
A choked whimper broke from your throat as you obeyed, breathless and raw. “Th-thank you, Tim–” The name cracked off your lips, shaky but desperate, and his groan rumbled deep against your back like you’d given him exactly what he wanted.
Every thrust was brutal, his hips slamming into you with no mercy, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the empty bar. You were sobbing openly now, but the sobs melted into shameless moans, your voice cracking on every filthy sound that spilled out. Your hands slipped uselessly against the sticky wood as you pushed back into him, desperate to feel him deeper.
“Please Tim–” your voice cracked, high and broken, but he only yanked your hair harder, bending you back against his chest as he buried himself deep.
“Shhh,” he rasped against your ear, his breath hot and heavy, his pace unrelenting. “No need to cry, pretty girl. You’re taking it so damn well.”
His hand slid down your stomach, gripping your hip so tight it hurt as he drove himself harder inside you, stretching you, overwhelming you. Your thighs shook violently, but you pressed back into him, your broken voice begging through gasps: “It’s too much–fuck, I–”
But his low chuckle rumbled against your back, rough and certain. “You can take it. Look at you, you fucking love it.”
His words shattered you further, pulling another sob from your throat as your body betrayed you, arching back into him, trembling under his grip.
He fucked you through it all, merciless, until your moans were just hiccuping little sounds, your whole body a wreck beneath him. Only then, finally, did he slow, his thrusts easing to deep, grinding pushes that made you whimper with every drag.
Without warning, his grip shifted. He hauled you back from the bar, your legs stumbling before he shoved you down onto the cold, sticky floor. The wood chilled your bare back, goosebumps racing across your skin as you looked up at him wide-eyed, wrecked.
You gasped, dazed, as he loomed above you - broad chest heaving, scars lit in the dim light, sweat dripping down his jaw.
Your knees spread instinctively, trembling, baring yourself completely for him. Exposed. Open. Completely helpless.
And his hungry eyes dragged over you, like he was deciding what part of you to devour next.
The floor was cold against your back, your skin prickling as his shadow fell heavy over you. He dropped to his knees between your spread thighs, broad and solid, filling your view completely.
One strong hand pushed your knees wider, spreading you open until you whimpered, while the other came up to brush damp strands of hair from your face. The gesture was almost gentle, almost caring - but the curve of his mouth ruined it, a dark smirk tugging at his lips like he knew exactly what game he was playing.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmured, low and rough, his voice vibrating right into your chest.
Your throat worked, but no words came. You could only nod, breath stuttering, a faint broken “mhm” slipping past your lips.
His grin sharpened as he lowered himself closer, the heat of his body caging you in. Your hands flew up without thinking, clutching at his broad shoulders, fingers digging into solid muscle beneath scarred skin. He was so strong, so there, it made your head spin.
And then, with one steady thrust, he pushed inside.
You gasped, back arching off the floor as he filled you to the hilt, stretching you all over again. His chest rumbled with a low groan, his forehead pressing briefly to yours before he drew back just enough to smirk down at you.
“Yeah,” he growled, hips grinding forward until you whimpered. “That’s it. Hold on to me, pretty girl.”
He started slow. Not gentle, never gentle, but steady, each thrust deep enough to make your body jolt on the cold floor. Every drag of his cock inside you had your walls fluttering, your voice breaking into soft, desperate moans.
“Yeah… that’s it,” he rasped, watching your face twist, drinking in every whimper. “Taking me like you should.”
His words sank in cruel, cutting sweet through the haze, making you tremble harder as his hips ground down again, forcing you to feel every inch.
Your mind betrayed you. No matter how hard you tried to stay lost in the drag of his body, the heat, the weight of him pressing you into the floor - the thought clawed its way back in. That shirt. Those blood stains. The way he’d smiled when you asked.
Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out on a breathless gasp, raw and broken between moans.
“Tim… are you really a hunter?”
For a split second, his rhythm didn’t falter, but his grin did - curving into something richer, like he’d been expecting for you to ask this question sooner or later. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, vibrating against your ribs as he thrust deeper, slower, forcing your body to answer for you.
He leaned down, brushing your hair from your damp face with a rough tenderness that made your chest ache. His lips hovered close to your ear, his breath hot, voice low and gravelly.
“I sure am, sweetheart,” he drawled, each word punctuated by the snap of his hips. “You nailed it.”
Another deep thrust stole your breath, your nails digging into his shoulders as his weight pressed you harder against the floor. His mouth curved into that familiar half-smirk as he looked down at you, sweat dripping down his temple.
“Now don’t think about it no more,” he rasped, almost soothing, as his thumb stroked across your temple in a mockery of softness. “Just hold on to me. That’s all you need to do.”
And then he drove into you harder, like the question had only spurred him on, his chuckle breaking into a rough groan as your body trembled beneath him.
You tried to nod, tried to let his words settle like the truth he meant them to be. But they didn’t. His answer hung between you, heavy, something unspoken curling sharp in your chest. A prickle of unease you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you wanted to drown in the heat of him. It sat there, eerie and unresolved, like a shadow at the edge of your thoughts.
And then his grip shifted again, rough hands sliding down to catch behind your knees, forcing them wide and holding you open like he owned every inch of you. His chest loomed above, sweat dripping from his jaw as his hips snapped forward, harder now, driving deep until you cried out.
The slap of his body against yours echoed in the empty bar, every thrust shoving you across the sticky floor, your back scraping against the wood as he fucked you harder than before.
Your lip quivered under his grip, a choked sob catching in your throat.
His eyes burned into yours, that dark grin tugging at his mouth as he leaned down, voice a gravelly growl that sent a shiver racing straight through you.
“I’ve been easy on you so far,” he said, punctuating the words with another brutal thrust that made your breath hitch. “But I’m done playin’ nice” His smirk sharpened, his grip bruising as he pinned your legs wider, grinding deep enough to make your vision blur. “Now I’m gonna fuck the shit outta you. Pound you into this floor till you’re cryin’ for real.”
Your broken moan caught in your throat, fingers clawing helplessly at his shoulders as he set a merciless rhythm, every snap of his hips proving he meant every filthy word.
“Please–” your voice cracked, but your body betrayed you, clenching tight around him.
The second his pace broke loose, there was no stopping him. His hips slammed into you mercilessly, the floor rattling under the weight of every thrust. One big hand clamped tight around the back of your knee, forcing your legs wide no matter how much you shook, while the other pressed down hard on your belly.
“Feel that?” he growled through gritted teeth, pushing deep, holding you open from the inside out. “That’s me, all the way in. Right where I fuckin’ belong.”
You clawed at the thick muscle of his forearm, nails dragging helplessly as your other arm hooked tight around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeline. Your legs trembled against his sides, thighs brushing his ribs with every brutal thrust.
His chest heaved above you, sweat dripping onto your skin as his groans grew louder, rougher - his control fraying even as he drove into you harder, faster.
Your tits bounced wildly with every slam of his hips, your body jostled helplessly beneath the sheer force of him.
His grip on your thigh tightened, bruising, while his other hand pressed harder against your lower belly, pinning you down with the weight of him still buried deep inside. The pressure made you acutely aware of just how full you were, every brutal thrust slamming you into his palm as if he wanted you to feel him from the inside out.
And then his thumb moved lower. Slow at first, dragging down until it found the swollen bundle of nerves between your thighs. The first rough circle of his thumb had you choking on a cry, your back arching helplessly off the floor.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice thick and guttural as he ground in deep. “Right there huh? I can feel you shakin’ for me.”
Your moans came ragged now, spilling into sobs as he worked your clit with relentless precision, every rough stroke synced with the merciless pound of his hips. Your whole body trembled under the dual pressure, pleasure sparking sharp and unbearable as heat coiled tighter and tighter low in your belly.
Pinned beneath his strength, shaking and clinging, you could only moan helplessly, each broken sound feeding the hungry look on his face as he fucked you harder, thumb circling faster, dragging you closer to the edge whether you were ready or not.
The pressure inside you snapped like a wire pulled too tight. Your cry tore from your chest, ragged and broken, as your whole body seized up under him. Heat flooded low and sharp, your walls fluttering violently around his cock as you came hard on the cold floor beneath him.
“Ohhh, there it is,” he rasped, smirking through his own heavy groans. “Can’t even help yourself, can you? Cumming all over my dick.”
But he didn’t stop. Not when your body seized around him, not when your cry broke raw from your throat. If anything, your orgasm only fueled him.
With a rough growl, he shifted his grip, hauling your shaking legs up and over his broad shoulders. The sudden angle knocked the breath out of you, your body folded beneath him, open and helpless as he drove in deep.
And then he hammered.
Each thrust hit harder than the last, slamming into you with such force the floor rattled beneath your spine. The sound was obscene - wet, messy squelches filling the air with every merciless snap of his hips, louder with each brutal drive.
You sobbed openly, overwhelmed, your moans breaking into raw cries as he split you apart again and again, deeper than he’d ever reached before. Your hands clawed at the floor, at his arms, at anything you could grasp, but there was no escape. He was everywhere - pressing down into your belly, stretching you so wide, filling you so completely it felt like you couldn’t breathe without him.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growled through gritted teeth, sweat dripping from his jaw as his pace only grew rougher. His eyes burned down at you, hungry, feral, like he couldn’t get enough of the sight of you coming apart. “So fuckin’ messy for me. So wet I can hear every inch of it.”
He never let up. Even as your body still twitched and shook from your release, he kept pounding into you, hard and relentless, every thrust deeper than the last. His groans came heavier now, rough and guttural, his pace driven by his own hunger as he chased his release through your wrecked body.
In your haze - sore, tingling, utterly undone - your arms somehow found the strength to wrap back around his thick neck. You pulled him down until his weight pressed you flat into the cold floor, and your lips crashed into his.
The kiss was nothing but need. Wet and messy, and so desperate. Your tongue tangled with his as you whimpered into his mouth, clinging to him like you couldn’t get enough even though your body screamed it was already too much.
Your hands found his hair without thinking, sinking into the dark strands and pulling hard. He groaned against your mouth at the sharp tug, the sound vibrating through you as his grip on you only tightened, like pain and hunger were all the same thing to him.
His chest rumbled against yours, his hand gripping your thigh tight enough to bruise, keeping you spread as his cock drove deep again and again.
When he finally pulled back from the kiss, his breath was ragged, his forehead pressed to yours. His eyes locked onto you, sharp and hungry even through the haze. His lips twisted into a crooked grin.
“My girl’s already falling in love,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse.
You gasped, your cheeks burning, but before you could even think of an answer, his hips slammed forward again, his pace breaking into rough, uneven thrusts. His groans grew louder, rawer, until his jaw clenched tight and his whole body went taut above you.
“Fuck–” he growled, voice tearing out of him, before burying himself to the hilt. His cock pulsed deep inside as he spilled into you, hot and heavy, his nose almost touching yours as he let out a hoarse, broken moan.
He held you down through every shudder, his weight crushing you to the floor, until the aftershocks finally dragged his thrusts to a stop.
Your chest heaved beneath him, your body sore and spent, his release still hot inside of you as his breath ghosted heavy across your skin.
A rough chuckle slipped out of him, low and breathless, his lips brushing your temple. “Whew,” he muttered, voice hoarse and warm. “That was somethin’, huh?”
He lingered for a moment, his weight heavy above you, breath still rough against your neck. Then he finally slid your legs off his shoulders and pushed himself up, pulling free in one slick drag that left you empty, stretched, and trembling. You gasped at the sudden loss, your body clenching uselessly around nothing as warmth spilled down your thighs.
He stood, broad chest gleaming with sweat, his cock still glistening as he tucked himself back into his jeans. He moved slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world, refastening his belt with those same lazy movements that made your chest tighten.
When he finally glanced down at you sprawled on the floor, his mouth curved into that crooked grin. Another chuckle rumbled low in his chest.
“C’mon, pretty lady. Up with you,” he drawled.
You blinked up at him, dazed, your muscles trembling as you tried to push yourself upright. Your arms gave out halfway, but before you could fall back, his big hands clamped around your waist and hauled you up to your feet.
Your legs wobbled, barely holding you, and you clung to the edge of the bar for balance as he let go.
Shaking, you fumbled with your clothes, tugging your bra back into place, your white top slipping crooked over one shoulder. Your denim skirt clung awkwardly as you shimmied it back up your thighs, the fabric ruffled and twisted.
When you finally looked up, your cheeks still hot, you found him watching you - arms crossed over his broad chest, that smug grin never fading.
Your stomach fluttered, heat rushing up your neck as you ducked your head a little. You smoothed your palms over your skirt, fidgeting with the hem before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The simple, nervous gesture felt stupid, making you shrink beneath the weight of his stare, small and flustered while he stood there so steady, so sure.
And the way his grin sharpened at the sight made your stomach flip all over again.
He didn’t say a word at first. Just grabbed his empty beer glass from where it sat on the counter, leaned over, and pulled the tap himself. Foam hissed into the glass, golden and steady.
You watched in silence as he brought it to his lips and downed almost the whole thing in one go, his throat working as he swallowed. When he finally set it back down, he exhaled hard, the sound rough and satisfied, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You know,” you muttered under your breath, adjusting your rumpled skirt, “you never actually paid for those beers.”
A chuckle rolled out of him, low and warm. He pulled a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket, tossed them onto the counter without counting.
“Keep the change,” he said, eyes glinting as his grin curved sharp. “Consider it a tip… for your excellent service.”
Your face burned all over again, your lips parting, but before you could form an answer he was already pulling a cigarette from his pocket. The flame of his lighter flared, then he drew in a long drag, the sharp scent curling through the air as he headed for the door.
At the threshold, he paused just long enough to glance back over his shoulder. His eyes met yours, and that crooked smirk tugged at his mouth.
“This is my favorite bar now,” he said simply, his voice low and final.
The lock clicked as he turned it, swinging the door open. Cold night air spilled in before the door shut behind him, the echo of his boots fading into the dark.
The silence felt louder after the door shut, broken only by the faint hum of the beer taps and your own uneven breathing. You stood there a long moment, staring at the empty doorway like maybe he’d turn back. He didn’t.
When your legs finally moved, it was automatic. You grabbed a rag, wiping at the counter where your release still glistened against the wood. The smell of sex clung heavy in the air, stronger than the stale beer and cigarette smoke. Your cheeks burned hotter as you scrubbed harder, but it didn’t erase what had happened - not from the wood, and sure as hell not from your head.
With a shaky sigh, you shoved the crumpled bills from the counter into your pocket. They felt heavier than they should’ve, like his hands had left their weight on them too.
You leaned against the bar, staring down at the floorboards, your pulse still pounding hard in your throat. Who the hell was he? Was he really one of the hunters in town? Or something else entirely?
All you knew for sure was the way your body still throbbed from his touch, the way your thighs trembled when you tried to stand straight. And the way the thought of him coming back through that door - boots heavy, grin sharp, eyes burning into you - made your stomach twist with equal parts fear and aching want.
You swallowed hard, pushing the rag aside. The bar was quiet again, but nothing about you was.
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