BAKTI SI ANAK LAKI-LAKI YANG TIDAK DIHARGAI

I sit at my usual table in the corner of the bar, the one tucked just out of the spotlight’s reach. The glass of bourbon in my hand is cold, its amber glow catching the dim light as I swirl it lazily. My name’s Elise, and I’m thirty-one, married to a man who loves me in his quiet, predictable way. Two kids, a mortgage, a life that’s safe but suffocating. That’s why I’m here, two towns over, where no one knows my name. This place, The Velvet Room, is my escape—a haven for my secret hunger. I come here once a month, maybe twice if the ache gets too severe. I don’t bring baggage, and I don’t take any home. Just one night, one stranger, one fleeting rush to remind me I’m alive.

My black dress clings to my hips, the neckline low enough to tease but not scream. I’ve learned the game over the past year. A subtle flash of thigh, a slow drag of my fingers along my collarbone, a deliberate wink—that’s all it takes. They come to me. They always do. Tonight, I hunt, the need clawing at my skin. I cross my legs, letting the hem ride up just enough, and scan the room.

He’s there, across the bar, leaning against a high-top table with a beer in hand. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark button-down stretched taut over a chest that promises strength. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, and his eyes—hazel, sharp, predatory—lock onto mine. My pulse kicks up, a familiar heat pooling low in my belly. I want him. I can already imagine his weight pressing me down, his hands rough but deliberate, his body claiming mine in ways my husband hasn’t in years. I tilt my head, letting my dark hair spill over one shoulder, and give him the wink. It’s a signal, a dare. He doesn’t look away.

I grab my purse, a small leather clutch, and slide out of the booth. My heels click against the floor as I head for the restroom down the hall, my heart pounding with anticipation. The rules are unspoken but clear: they follow, we collide, and then we part ways. No names, no numbers, no strings. The hallway is dim, the air heavy with the scent of liquor and possibility. I push open the restroom door, a single-stall space with a lock that clicks satisfyingly behind me. I set my purse on the counter, check my reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes bright with want. I’m ready.

The door creaks open, and he’s there, filling the frame. He doesn’t hesitate, stepping inside and locking the door with a flick of his wrist. Up close, he’s even better—muscular arms straining against his sleeves, a faint scar above his eyebrow that makes him look dangerous in the best way. His gaze rakes over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s already undressing me in his mind. My skin hums under his scrutiny.

“I'm Mark” he says, his eyes going over my body with a hunger that turns me on.

“I don't care” I reply, my back to the counter.

“You don’t waste time,” he says, his voice low, gravelly, with a hint of amusement. He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him.

“I know,” I reply, my voice steady despite the way my thighs clench. I lean back against the counter, my hands gripping the edge, inviting him to close the distance.

He does. His fingers brush my hip, testing, and I arch into the touch, a silent yes. “What’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?” he asks, his lips curving into a smirk that promises trouble.

“Looking for someone like you,” I say, bold, my eyes never leaving his. I don’t care if it’s cliché. It’s true.

His smirk fades into something hungrier, and he steps into my space, his body a wall of muscle and intent. His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my dress higher, and I gasp as his fingers graze the lace of my panties. “This what you want?” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.

I nod, my voice caught in my throat as he presses himself closer, his hardness evident against my hip. My hands find his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the solid planes beneath. I want to tear it off, to feel his skin under mine, to lose myself in the rawness of it. “Yes,” I whisper, and that’s all he needs.

His mouth crashes into mine, urgent and demanding, tasting of beer and something darker, something that makes my head spin. I kiss him back just as fiercely, my hands sliding up to grip his shoulders, nails digging in as his tongue explores mine. It’s messy, desperate, exactly what I came for. His hands are everywhere—on my waist, my hips, slipping under my dress to cup my ass, pulling me flush against him. I moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss.

He breaks away, his lips trailing down my neck, nipping at the sensitive skin just below my ear. “Fuck, you’re wild,” he growls, and the words send a shiver through me. I tug at his belt, my fingers fumbling with the buckle, desperate to feel him. He helps, undoing it with one hand while the other slips between my thighs, finding me already wet. His fingers tease through the lace, slow circles that make my knees buckle.

“More,” I gasp, and he obliges, pushing my panties aside and sliding a finger inside me. I bite my lip to stifle a cry, my head falling back as he adds another, his thumb brushing my clit with maddening precision. My hips rock against his hand, chasing the pressure, the heat, the edge I’ve been craving all night.

“You like that?” he asks, his voice rough, his eyes locked on mine in the mirror behind me. I nod, unable to form words as he curls his fingers, hitting just the right spot. My breath hitches, my body tightening, and I’m so close, teetering on the brink.

“Don’t stop,” I plead, my voice raw, and he doesn’t. His fingers move faster, deeper, and I grip his shoulders, my nails leaving marks as the tension builds. I come hard, a wave of pleasure that leaves me trembling, my breath ragged. He doesn’t let up, drawing out every shudder until I’m limp against the counter.

But I’m not done. I need more. I need him. I reach for his jeans, freeing him with a tug, and my breath catches at the sight of him—thick, hard, ready. He groans as I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, savoring the way his jaw clenches, his eyes darkening with need.

“Turn around,” he says, his voice a low command that sends a fresh wave of heat through me. I obey, facing the mirror, my hands braced on the counter. He lifts my dress, baring me, and I feel the cool air against my skin before his warmth presses against me. His hands grip my hips, steadying me, and then he’s there, sliding into me with one slow, deliberate thrust.

I moan, the stretch exquisite, filling me in a way that makes my toes curl. He moves, slow at first, letting me adjust, but I don’t want slow. I push back against him, urging him deeper, faster. “Harder,” I say, and he complies, his thrusts picking up speed, each one driving me higher. The mirror reflects us—my flushed face, his intense focus, our bodies moving in perfect sync. It’s raw, primal, everything I needed tonight.

His hand slides up my spine, tangling in my hair, pulling just enough to make me gasp. “You feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice strained, and I can tell he’s close too. I clench around him, wanting to feel him lose control, and he groans, his rhythm faltering. My second orgasm builds, faster this time, and when it hits, it’s explosive, my vision blurring as I cry out. He follows moments later, his grip tightening as he spills into me, his breath hot against my neck.

We stay like that for a moment, panting, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Then he pulls away, and reality creeps back in. I straighten my dress, smooth my hair, avoiding his gaze in the mirror. This is the part where we part ways, no questions, no promises. I grab my purse, my legs still shaky, and turn to the door.

“See you around,” he says, his voice casual now, but there’s a glint in his eye that makes my stomach flip. I don’t respond, just unlock the door and step into the hallway, the cool air a shock against my heated skin.

As I slip back into the bar, I feel the familiar mix of satisfaction and guilt. I’ll go home to my husband, my kids, my life. But a part of me knows I’ll be back here, at this table, waiting for the next stranger to make me feel alive again. And something tells me he might be back too.

**To be Continued**