Fingered my ex (f26) at the bar

The condensation from my gin and tonic had formed a perfect wet circle on the dark wood of the high table, a little oasis of cool in the sweltering, body-packed bar. Dirty Martini in Liverpool Street was heaving, a typical Thursday night where the city’s professional veneer melted into something far more primal. I got there first, a habit born from a near-pathological need to secure a good spot and a first drink. It gave me time to settle, to watch the human tide flow in, and tonight, to anticipate her.

My phone buzzed. A text from Chloe: Just downstairs. This place is mad. A thrill, sharp and familiar, shot through me. It had been over two years since we’d officially called it quits, but the pull never truly faded. Our relationship had been a bonfire – intense, all-consuming, and ultimately, something that couldn’t be sustained without burning everything else to the ground. We’d found a different rhythm now, something born of shared history and a frankly undeniable physical chemistry that refused to die. She worked from home mostly, out in some cozy Surrey town, but when her job demanded a London meeting, more often than not, I’d end the night buried deep inside her.

And then I saw her. She weaved through the crowd, a vision that made my breath catch. She’d obviously changed after work. The conservative blouse and tailored trousers she’d have worn for her meeting were gone, replaced by a little black dress so tiny and tight it looked like a second skin. It was short, hitting her mid-thigh, and the deep V-neck plunged daringly. Her heels were strappy, death-defying things that made her legs look endless. This was not work attire. This was a statement. This was our unspoken language.

She slid onto the stool opposite me, her scent – jasmine and something uniquely Chloe – cutting through the smells of booze and perfume. “Johnson,” she said, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips. Her eyes, the color of dark honey, scanned my face, taking in the effect she was having.

“Chloe. You look… incredible,” I managed, my voice a bit gruffer than I intended.

“You don’t look so bad yourself for an old man,” she teased, reaching for the cocktail menu the waitress had left. We made small talk, the kind that was just noise. How was work? How was the commute? But our legs were touching under the table, a point of contact that burned through the fabric of my trousers. My hand itched to touch her, to reclaim the territory it knew so well.

We had a few drinks each at that high table, the noise and the crowd providing a chaotic sort of privacy. My gaze kept dropping to the neckline of her dress, to the smooth swell of her breasts, remembering the weight of them in my hands, the taste of her skin. I told her as much, leaning in close so my words were a hot whisper in her ear. A faint blush crept up her neck, but her smile widened. “Patience,” she murmured, her knee pressing more firmly against mine.

Then, a miracle. A booth in a slightly darker, more secluded corner of the bar emptied out. We moved with a speed that was almost comical, claiming it like conquering heroes. The worn leather seats were a welcome change from the hard stools, offering an illusion of intimacy the open floor did not. As we settled in, side-by-side this time, I didn’t hesitate. I dropped my hand onto her thigh under the table. The bare skin was impossibly smooth, warm from the room and the alcohol. My pinky finger was already underneath the hem of that infinitesimal dress.

She let out a soft, shuddering sigh and leaned her head against my shoulder, her hair tickling my neck. “God, I’ve missed this,” she breathed, her hand coming to rest on my leg, her fingers squeezing. We continued talking, the conversation turning filthier, more laden with double entendres and shared memories. My hand began to move, a slow, deliberate rub up and down the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. I could feel the fine muscles twitch under my touch.

A few more sips of her martini, and her legs parted, just a fraction. An invitation. My fingers crept higher, tracing patterns, moving inward until the heel of my palm was pressed firmly against the damp heat of her through the delicate lace of her knickers. She gasped softly, a tiny, sharp intake of air, and her head lolled back against the leather booth.

“Anyone could see,” she whispered, but her hips made a tiny, involuntary thrust against my hand.

“Let them be jealous,” I growled into her ear, my fingers finding the specific spot, the center of her pleasure, through the wet fabric. I pressed and circled, feeling her body respond, feeling the lace grow slick. She was always so responsive, so gloriously wet for me. It was a power trip I never got tired of.

Her breathing became ragged, little puffs of air against my neck. With my other hand, I brushed her hair back from her face, cupping her cheek. Her eyes were glazed, her lips slightly parted. “Fuck, Johnson,” she moaned, so low it was almost a vibration.

That was all the encouragement I needed. I hooked my fingers into the side of her knickers, a flimsy barrier that was utterly useless now. I pushed the lace aside, and my middle finger found her, slick and hot and ready. I slid one finger inside her, and her whole body clenched around me, a tight, velvet fist. Her back arched, pressing her chest against my arm.

“Oh, God…” she choked out, her nails digging into my thigh through my jeans.

This was the Chloe I remembered. The one who was vocal, unrestrained, gloriously filthy in bed. And here, in this public place, watching her try to hold it together was the biggest turn-on imaginable. Thankfully, the music was a pounding, deep-house track that provided a thrumming baseline to our illicit activities. She buried her face in my neck, her moans muffled against my skin. I felt the sharp, delicious pain of her teeth on my earlobe.

“You’re so wet for me,” I murmured, curling my finger inside her, searching for that spot I knew would make her see stars.

She found it. Her body jerked, and a full-throated moan escaped before she could stifle it. She pulled her face back, her eyes wide with a mix of panic and lust. “Stop teasing me, you bastard,” she hissed, her voice thick with need. I added a second finger, stretching her, feeling her accommodate me. Her hips began to move in a slow, rhythmic counterpoint to my thrusting fingers. She was riding my hand right there in the booth, in a bar full of hundreds of people.

Her whispers became a desperate, broken litany in my ear. “I can’t… everyone will know… oh, right there, don’t stop… Johnson, please, we need to get out of here. Get a hotel. Now. I need you inside me. Properly.”

The raw need in her voice was my undoing. I slowly, reluctantly, withdrew my fingers, glistening and slick. I brought them to my lips, never breaking eye contact, and tasted her. Her flavor, musky and sweet, exploded on my tongue. Her eyes darkened, her pupils blown wide with desire.

“Okay,” I said, my own voice rough with lust. “Let’s go.”

We moved as one, scrambling out of the booth. I threw a wad of cash onto the table, far more than enough to cover our drinks. I didn’t care. My entire world had narrowed to the woman whose hand was clamped in mine, her steps slightly unsteady in those ridiculous heels. We didn’t speak as we pushed through the crowd, a current of pure, uncut anticipation pulling us toward the door, toward the night, and toward a hotel room where the only sounds that would matter were our own.