The Barista and the Regular
He comes in every Tuesday, same time—black coffee, no sugar, no milk. Just the way he likes it.
I notice him before he notices me. The way his fingers curl around the cup like he’s holding something fragile. The way his eyes flick up when I lean over the counter, sleeves rolled, collar open—just enough.
I ask if he wants “anything else,” voice low, like I’m offering more than foam. He smiles—slow, knowing—and says “Not yet.”
Today, he lingers. Watches me wipe the steam wand, the way my thumb traces the metal. I feel it—his gaze sliding down my neck, past the apron, settling where the fabric hugs my hips.
I turn, catch him. “You always watch like that?”
He shrugs. “Only when it’s worth watching.”
I pour his refill—slow—let my wrist brush his. Warmth. Pulse. Neither of us pulls away.
The bell rings. Someone else. He stands, leaves a tip—too much, like always—and whispers, “See you next Tuesday.”
I don’t look down. Just feel the heat where his skin touched mine.
And I already know: next week, I’ll forget the apron.
The Second Cup
Tuesday again.
This time, I wore the black top—the one that clings when I lean forward. No bra. Just skin under cotton, nipples hard from the cold… or from him.
He walks in, same black coffee order, but his eyes don’t leave my chest. I pretend not to notice. Pour. Let my fingers linger on the cup—trace the edge like I’m stroking something else.
“You look… different,” he says. Voice rough. Like he’s already imagining.
“Different good?” I ask, tilting my head.
He swallows. “Dangerous.”
I laugh—soft, breathy—then slide the cup over. Our knuckles brush. Electric. I don’t move. Neither does he.
“Stay,” I murmur. “The shop’s slow.”
He sits. Watches me close the blinds. The light dims. Steam from the espresso machine curls up like smoke from a fire we haven’t started yet.
I lean across the counter—close enough he can smell my perfume. “Want cream this time?”
His grin is wicked. “Only if you’re offering.”
I bite my lip. Pour a little—let it drip down the side. “Oops.”
He reaches out. Wipes it off with his thumb. Then—slow—licks it clean.
I feel it everywhere.
The bell’s silent. We’re alone.
And next Tuesday? I’ll close early.
After Hours – The Third Cup
The door clicks shut. Lights low. Just the hum of the fridge and my heartbeat.
He’s already there—behind the counter, sleeves rolled, my apron is off. I flip the lock. “No customers tonight,” I say.
He steps closer. “Just us.”
I back up until my hips hit the espresso machine—warm metal against my ass. He follows. Stops an inch away. I can feel his breath on my neck.
“You’ve been teasing me for weeks,” he murmurs. Fingers trace my collarbone—light, like he’s testing.
I tilt my head. “You liked it.”
“I want more.”
His hand slides down—slow—over my ribs, waist, stopping at the hem of my skirt. I don’t stop him. Just arch.
The machine hisses—steam curling up between us. I reach back, grip the edge, knuckles white. He presses in—chest to chest—hard enough I feel every line of him.
No kiss. Not yet. Just his mouth hovering over mine. “Tell me what you want.”
I whisper, “Touch me.”
He does—thumb brushing the inside of my thigh, up… up… stopping just before. Teasing.
I moan—soft, involuntary.
He smiles against my ear. “Next Tuesday… I’ll bring the cream.”
Then he steps back. Leaves. Door chimes.
I stay there—legs shaky, skin flushed—until the steam clears.
And I know: next time? I’ll lock the door before he even orders.
The Fourth Cup
Tuesday. Door locked. Lights off.
He doesn’t order. Just walks in, coat off, eyes dark. I meet him halfway—apron gone, top unbuttoned two notches.
He grabs my waist—pulls me flush. My back hits the counter. His fingers dig in, thumbs stroking circles on my hipbones.
“You closed early,” he says.
“You came late,” I breathe.
His mouth finds my neck—open, hot, teeth grazing. I arch, fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. The espresso machine clicks off—silence except our breathing.
He lifts me onto the counter—easy, like I’ve been waiting for it. Legs wrap around him. His hand slides up my thigh—slow—stops at lace.
“Still teasing?” he asks.
I grind against him—just once. “Always.”
He groans. Low. Real.
Then he kisses me—finally. Tongue, teeth, coffee-taste. I taste him back—harder.
We stay like that: clothes on, bodies burning, no rush.
Until he whispers, “Next time… no counter.”
The Fifth Cup
Next Tuesday. No shop. My place.
He knocks once. I open—black silk robe, nothing underneath. He steps in, door shuts. No words.
I back him against the wall—hands on his chest, pushing. His belt clicks open. I drop to my knees—slow—look up.
“You’ve been patient,” I say.
“Not anymore.”
I tug his jeans down—just enough. Fingers trace him—teasing, circling. He hisses.
I lean in—breath hot—then stop. “Tell me.”
“Touch me.”
I do—slow strokes, thumb over the tip. His hand fists my hair—gentle, but tight.
I rise. Push him to the couch. Straddle him—robe falls open. Skin on skin.
We rock—slow—his hands on my ass, mine on his shoulders. No penetration. Just friction. Heat. Moans.
I cum first—quiet, shuddering, forehead against his.
He follows—growls my name.
We stay tangled. Sweat. Breath.
“Next week?” he asks.
“Bring nothing,” I say. “Just you.”
The Sixth Cup
My bed. Midnight. No Tuesday.
He shows up unannounced—rain-soaked, shirt clinging. I pull him in—door slams.
We don’t speak. Just strip—slow—eyes locked.
He lays me down. Kisses every inch: collarbone, ribs, navel. Stops between my thighs—breath warm.
I arch. “Please.”
He does—tongue, fingers, no hurry. I grip sheets, back off the mattress—moaning his name.
He climbs up—slides in—slow—inch by inch. I wrap legs around him.
We move—deep, deliberate—like we’ve been practicing.
I cum again—harder—clenching around him. He follows—buries his face in my neck, groans.
After? We lie there—sticky, spent.
He kisses my forehead. “No more coffee.”
I laugh—breathless. “Good. I hate the taste.”