Afterwork Drinks

There’s a particular glow a bar carries in the hour after work — that honeyed, tired warmth where people shed the day one sip at a time. It was in that soft, forgiving light that I saw you.

You caught my eye before you meant to. Your gaze moved over me slowly, appreciatively, settling on my curves with the kind of focus that warms a woman from the inside out. And when you realised I’d noticed, you didn’t look away.You held it.Held me.

I’m not sure what shifted first , your shoulders relaxing or that quiet spark in your eyes — but something in you softened as I walked towards you.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice low, already leaning in. “You’re an Old Fashioned woman.”

I laughed, because it was accurate in more ways than one. You signalled the bartender with a decisive flick of your fingers. Minutes later, a perfect Old Fashioned was placed in front of me, the orange twist catching the amber light like something intentionally seductive.

“It suits you,” you murmured.

“So do you,” I thought, but didn’t say.

We talked. The light kind of chatting that feels like a slow hand running down your spine. Your body angled towards mine, your knee almost touching my thigh, your hands holding your glass almost touching mine, the way your eyes kept drifting over me hungrily. The air was electric, the heat between us almost at boiling point. You shifted slightly, the fabric of your trousers tightened and there it was: your hard cock, straining to be released.

You didn’t hide it.You just breathed out, quietly… as if you’d been holding that breath all week.

The bar felt suddenly smaller. Warmer. The air between us thickened with the kind of anticipation that needs only a single choice to ignite.

And you made it.

Your hand found my waist — gentle at first, testing the invitation. When I didn’t step back, when I leaned in instead, you drew me closer and kissed me. A long, lingering kiss that tasted of whisky and want and a man who’d been thinking about my mouth from the moment I walked in.

It was a deliberate, deep, slow kiss — the kind of kiss that tells a woman that she is about to get exactly what she wants.

By the time we parted, neither of us had quite caught our breath.

“You shouldn’t tempt me like that,” you whispered, your thumb brushing the edge of my lip.

“Maybe I wanted to,” I replied, and you smiled, that warm, knowing smile.

Outside, the night air was cool against our flushed skin.

You looked at me.

“Your place isn’t far from here… is it?”

No pressure. No rush. An intimate suggestion, carried on a low voice and quiet certainty.

I smiled.

The elevator dinged.

The door barely closed as we started undressing each.

Zips came down. Shoes came off. Lips hungry. Mouths moaning in exquisite pleasure... ... ...

Until next time, Miranda xox

And if the thought of that kiss stayed with you… my door isn't far from here.

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