Spilled coffee & stolen moans

The café was empty except for the hum of the fridge and him Lucas, the construction worker who came in every Friday, all dirt-streaked forearms and a grin that made my thighs press together. Today, though? He didn’t just order. He commanded.

“Fernanda.” His voice was rough, like gravel under boots. “Enough games.”

I blinked, wiping my hands on my apron. “What games?”

He grabbed my wrist, pulling me across the counter until our faces were inches apart. His breath smelled like espresso and danger. “You’ve been teasing me for weeks. Those little bites of your lip when you hand me my cup. Leaning just fucking close enough.” His thumb traced my pulse. “I’m done playing.”

My stomach dropped no, lower. “Customers shouldn’t”

“Fuck ‘shouldn’t.’” His mouth crashed into mine, hot and demanding. I gasped, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue claiming me like I was his new addiction. The counter dug into my ribs as he yanked me tighter, his free hand sliding under my skirt. No panties today. Oops.

“Christ,” he growled, fingers finding me wet, throbbing. “Knew you’d be like this.”

I moaned into his mouth, my hips rocking against his touch. “Nnever been… approached like this,” I panted. “So fucking exquisite.”

He smirked, biting my neck. “You haven’t seen shit yet.”

Then he lifted me onto the counter, knocking over a sugar jar. Granules scattered as he shoved my thighs apart, his calloused hands dragging my hips to the edge. The bell on the door jingled—someone was outside—but he didn’t stop. Just unzipped his jeans, freed his cock, thick and impatient, and filled me in one brutal thrust.

“Fuck!” I clawed at his shoulders, my back arching. The espresso machine steamed beside us, his rhythm relentless. Every snap of his hips made the cups rattle, my moans muffled against his shoulder. “S’too much!”

“Bullshit.” He gripped my hair, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You live for this. For me ruining you over your own damn counter.”

I came with a cry, my nails scraping the stainless steel, his name a prayer on my lips. He followed, spilling into me with a groan, his teeth sinking into my collarbone.

When the door chimed again—a customer—he simply zipped up, licked sugar off my cheek, and strolled out like nothing happened.

I was left trembling, my apron crooked, the air thick with sex and roasted beans.

And the Closed sign stayed flipped all afternoon.