On Tap at the Red Booth

Mai Takizawa loved the buzz of Friday nights at the dimly lit bar—the low music, the clink of glasses, the way eyes followed her when she slid into the curved red booth like she owned it. Tonight she felt playful, electric. She stretched out across the leather, rolling slowly so the short hem of her dress rode up, giving teasing glimpses of smooth skin and lace. A little shimmy, and her bra slipped free, tiny breasts bared to the warm air and appreciative gazes. She arched her back, letting them bounce just enough to invite.
He didn’t hesitate. The guy she’d been trading smiles with all night slid in beside her, voice low and warm. His mouth found her nipple first—gentle suction, then a flick of tongue that made her gasp and thread fingers through his hair. He kissed lower, trailing heat down her stomach until his lips settled between her thighs, slow licks turning her slick and trembling with want.
When she was dripping and pleading in soft whimpers, he lifted her effortlessly, guiding her petite frame down onto him. She sank inch by inch, a perfect, snug fit, rocking together in the shadowed booth like the rest of the bar had faded away. Every roll of her hips drew quiet moans from them both until the rhythm built to a shared, shuddering peak.
Mai leaned back against his chest afterward, still flushed and smiling.
“Refill?” she teased.
He chuckled, kissing her neck. “Only if you’re still on tap.”
Some nights the bar serves the best kind of happy hour.