**”Spilled Wine”**

I knew she was trouble the second she walked into the restaurant—tall, curvy, with that wild auburn hair spilling over her bare shoulders, her dress hugging every inch of her like it was painted on. I was supposed to be meeting a client, but the second she sat at the bar across from me, legs crossed just a little too high, I forgot why I was even here.

I sipped my scotch, pretending to scroll through my phone, but my eyes kept flicking back to her. She was talking to the bartender, laughing, leaning forward just enough that the neckline of her dress gaped. No bra—I could see the soft curve of her tits, the faint pink of her nipples when she shifted. Fuck.

Then it happened. She uncrossed her legs—slow, deliberate—and I caught it. A flash of smooth, pale skin where her thigh met the edge of the table. No panties. None. Just bare fucking skin leading up to—

My throat went dry.

She knew. She had to. But she didn’t look at me, just took another sip of her wine, her fingers trailing the stem of the glass like she was imagining something else between them. Then, so casual it was criminal, she let one hand drift under the table, her fingers slipping between her thighs.

I nearly choked on my drink.

She wasn’t even hiding it. Her lips parted just slightly, her chest rising with a slow breath as her fingers moved—just a little, just enough that I could imagine it. The wetness. The way her pussy would glisten if she spread her legs for me right here.

I adjusted myself under the table, my cock already hard as fucking steel, straining against my zipper. I couldn’t look away.

Her other hand toyed with the rim of her wine glass, her hips shifting subtly in her seat. Was she touching herself? Rubbing her clit under the table while strangers ate dinner around her? Jesus Christ.

I palmed myself through my pants, my thumb pressing against the head of my dick, imagining it was her fingers instead. Her mouth. Her tight little cunt.

She bit her lip—just once—and I swore I saw her shoulders tense. A quiet, shaky exhale. Then her fingers moved faster, her thighs pressing together like she was trying to stop herself but couldn’t.

I was fucking dying.

I unzipped my pants just enough to pull my cock out, stroking slow, matching the rhythm I imagined her fingers were moving. She tilted her head back, her throat working as she swallowed, her body tensing—

And then her wine glass tipped.

Red spilled across the bar, dripping onto the floor, but she didn’t even flinch. Her fingers were still moving, her breath ragged. The bartender rushed over with a towel, but she just waved him off, laughing, like she hadn’t just been seconds from coming in front of everyone.

Then, finally, she turned her head—looked right at me.

Her lips curled into a smirk.

And with one last slow drag of her fingers between her thighs, she stood up, grabbed her purse, and walked toward the bathroom.

I didn’t even think. I followed.