40. Booth Creampie

40. Booth Creampie
꧁꧂༆Booth Creampie༆꧁꧂

The lounge was packed and the air was thick with the smell of grease, burnt coffee, and cigarette smoke leaking in from the parking lot outside.

Truckers in faded caps, drunk college kids laughing too loud, and waitresses in tight uniforms yelled orders over the constant hiss of the grill.

Lana slid into the very last red-vinyl booth in the back corner, the one half-hidden by a jukebox that hadn’t worked in years.

Her tiny denim skirt barely covered her ass, and she wasn’t wearing panties… hadn’t all night.

She was twenty-two, still bleeding from a breakup that had gutted her. Tonight she wanted something raw, something that would burn the memory of him right out of her skin.

Alcohol, and maybe something else… something nasty.

Two booths down, Cole hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she walked in.

He was in his early thirties, with rough, dark stubble covering a hard jaw. A flannel shirt hung open, revealing a thick trail of black hair that ran down the center of his chest and disappeared under his belt.

His arms were sun-browned and corded with muscle, veins pulsing every time he flexed his fingers around his beer bottle.

He looked like a man who fixed trucks for a living and fucked like he hated you. He was exactly the kind of trouble Lana had walked in here craving.

Every time Lana uncrossed and recrossed her legs, his jaw tightened.

She felt the tension between her own thighs like a pulse.

He finally stood up and crossed the lounge like he owned the place. He didn’t bother asking for permission, just slid into the booth opposite side of her booth.

Lana’s body tensed from the sheer intensity of his presence, her thighs spreading wide under the table of their own accord.

“Name’s Cole,” he said, his voice deep and sinful.

She smirked, licked her bottom lip, and fired back a rude, “Didn’t ask.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, then lower, to where her skirt had ridden so high the curve of her ass was practically on the seat.

“Spread your legs under the table,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble. “Right now.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She wanted to scream what?!

But the raw authority and dominance oozing from his voice, his eyes, his entire body made her obey like a good girl.

She looked around quickly. The lounge was loud, people laughing, plates clattering, and luckily nobody was looking their way.

Then she took a deep breath and slowly let her thighs slide apart until cool air kissed her bare pussy.

She was already wet, her lips swollen and slick, her clit poking out, needy.

Cole didn’t even blink. He just slid lower in the booth, casual as hell, elbows resting on the table like he was waiting for his food.

Then his right hand disappeared under the table.

Two thick, calloused fingers found her instantly, dragging up her slit and spreading her wetness from her hole to her clit in one filthy stroke.

“Jesus fuck, you’re soaked,” he muttered, eyes locked on hers, voice so low only she could hear.

“Been dripping for me all night, haven’t you?”

Lana couldn’t answer.

Her body shuddered as a wave of pure pleasure coursed through her. She bit her bottom lip hard, stifling the moan threatening to slip out.

Cole didn’t let her recover.

He shoved those two fingers straight inside her without warning, curling them hard against that spot that made her vision blur.

His thumb mashed her clit in rough, messy circles.

The slick, wet sounds were barely covered by the clatter of forks and plates.

A waitress walked right past, but Cole never stopped.

He pumped his fingers slowly, twisting, scissoring, and stretching her open while he sipped his beer with his left hand nonchalantly.

Lana’s thighs started shaking.

She gripped the edge of the table so hard her knuckles went white, nails digging into the fake wood.

He added a third finger, stretching her wide, his knuckles dragging against her inner walls.

His thumb was brutal now, rubbing fast and sloppy, smearing her juices everywhere. The seat under her ass was soaked with her wetness.

“Gonna make this pretty pussy come right here,” he growled under his breath, leaning in just enough that his stubble scraped her cheek.

“While every fucking person in this place watches you try not to scream.”

A drunk guy stumbled past their booth, laughing loud.

Cole didn’t care; he slammed his fingers harder, his thumb grinding her clit in fast, filthy circles.

A choked whimper slipped out of her.

Her hips jerked under the table, riding his hand shamelessly now.

He leaned closer, his wet lips brushing her ear.

“Come on my fingers, baby girl. Soak this fucking seat. I want that juice rolling down your thigh when you walk out of here.”

That did it.

Lana came hard, her pussy squeezing down on his hand like a fist, a hot gush of her release soaking his fingers and the seat beneath her.

Her whole body shook, thighs clamping around his wrist as juices dripped down in a hot little puddle between her legs.

She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, eyes rolling back as a strangled moan caught in her throat.

Cole pulled his fingers out slowly, brought them up above the table, and licked them clean, one by one, his eyes never leaving hers.

He sucked her taste off his skin like it was the best thing he’d ever had.

Then he stood up, dropped a crumpled hundred on the table, and walked out without another word.