She turns around, unbuttons her jeans, and pushes them down her hips along with her underwear. She bends forward over the bar counter with her forearms flat on the wood and looks back at me over her shoulder.
"Well?" She wiggles her ass and I jump.
I'm behind her before the word finishes leaving her mouth. One hand on her hip, the other between her thighs, and she's wet enough that my fingers slide through her without resistance. She moans into her forearms and her back arches.
"You're soaked," I say against her ear.
"I've been thinking about this since I started cleaning. Three hours of polishing this bar imagining you bending me over it. So yes, I'm fucking soaked, are you going to do something about it or just commentate?"
I push inside her.
The angle is different from the bed. Deeper. The bar height puts her at exactly the right position and when I bottom out she makes a sound that's half scream, half profanity, her fingers gripping her forearms so hard she’s going to bruise them.
I pull back and thrust in again, harder. The bottles on the shelves underneath the bar rattle. She laughs, a breathless, beautiful sound, and pushes back against me.
"The whiskey glasses are going to fall," she says.
"I’ll buy you more."
I set a pace that's hard and rough, each thrust rocking her forward against the counter. The wood creaks beneath her. Her knuckles are white, my hands grip her hips, pulling her back onto me with every forward push. The sounds filling the room are loud. Skin, breath, the rhythmic protest of a bar that was not built for this purpose but is serving it admirably.
She reaches back and grabs my wrist, pulling my hand from her hip to her front, pressing my fingers against her clit. The instruction is crystal clear. I rub in tight circles while I fuck her, matching the rhythm. Her head drops forward onto her arms. The sounds she's making get louder, higher, wilder.
"Right there, right there, fuck, don't stop, Emilio, right fucking there."
I give her exactly what she's asking for. My hips driving into her, my fingers working her clit, the counter holding both of us up because my knees are starting to feel a little shaky. She comes with a shout that echoes. Her pussy clenches around me so hard my rhythm breaks and I have to brace one hand on the counter to keep standing.
I follow her thirty seconds later. Deep, buried in her pussy, spurting my come over and over. My forehead drops between her shoulder blades, her name is in my mouth on a groan that I feel in every bone. I pulse inside her and she pushes back against me, taking everything, wanting every last drop.
We stay there for a minute, both of us breathing hard, bent over the bar together. A bottle of vodka has fallen on its side on the shelf. One of the whiskey glasses slid to the edge but didn't fall. The Macallan is untouched because even sex can't topple good whiskey.
I pull out slowly. She makes a small sound at the loss, turns around, leans back against the counter. Her hair is everywhere, her cheeks flushed, naked from the waist down with my cum slowly seeping out of her and trailing down her legs. The look on her face is the best thing I’ve ever fucking scene and I have half the mind to take a picture.
Instead, I’ll just work my ass off everyday to make sure she always looks at me this way.
"On the house," she says.
I laugh so hard I have to grab the counter to keep from sliding to the floor. She laughs too, and it hits me. This is us. This is who we are. Two people who fuck on bar counters, laugh about it after, and don't apologize for any of it.
She bends down and pulls her jeans up, and I zip mine. She picks up the rag from the floor and starts wiping down the counterwhere we just had sex, because Savannah cleans her own bar even when the mess is mutual.
I pour two more whiskeys and hand her one. We stand behind the bar together, shoulder to shoulder, drinking in silence. Good silence. Full silence. The kind that doesn't need filling because everything that needed saying was said with our bodies.
My phone buzzes.
I pull it out and see Leone’s name flash across the screen, so I answer.
"Dahlia's here."
Dahlia left this world a long time ago and went to Westpoint Academy and fell in love with a man named Bam who is built for destruction the way Carmelo is built for it, and if she's finally here, it means the thing everyone in this compound has been avoiding saying out loud is about to become real.
Aurelio is dying, and his daughter has come to say goodbye.
Savannah reads my face. She always reads my face. "What is it?"
"Aurelio's daughter just arrived at the compound."
She doesn't ask why. She already knows. She presses the bottle cap in her pocket and sets down her glass, then reaches over and takes my hand and squeezes once.
