Knock It Off

Tiffany Kinney sat at the far end of the Iron Lantern with a whiskey she had not earned and an attitude she had practiced all week. Friday night in a small town meant the same neon beer signs, the same jukebox fighting a country song it could not quite remember, and the same men who thought a stool was an invitation. She wanted none of it. Eight months of quiet after twenty-eight years of on and off and sixteen years of a marriage that had finally gone still was supposed to mean this: one drink, no conversation, her own damn company.

Carol Sullivan occupied the stool two down, bleach blonde and already halfway through a beer, watching the door like she expected trouble and hoped for it. Tiffany ignored her. She ignored the bartender, too, until he set down another napkin she had not asked for.

The man who sat down without asking was six foot three of black T-shirt, well-worn jeans, and a backwards black baseball cap over dark hair gone gray at the edges. Salt-and-pepper beard, neat. Tattooed arms that took up more of the bar than they should have. A black watch. He smelled like shop soap and cold air, like he had come in off a Harley or a pickup and had not bothered to decide which version of himself he was tonight.

Tiffany gave him the look. The one that asked who the hell he thought he was and what the fuck he thought he was doing with a stool that did not belong to him.

He leaned in. His hand found her chin, not rough enough to bruise, firm enough that she felt it in her teeth. His voice was low and gravelly, close enough that she caught whiskey on his breath that was not hers.

"Knock it the fuck off."

Shock hit first. Then heat, fast and humiliating, a slick rush between her legs that made her furious at her own body. She opened her mouth to snap. He tightened his grip and pulled her face up until they were inches apart. She looked into his eyes and closed her mouth. Swallowed hard.

He smiled that mischievous smile, the kind that knew exactly what it had done.

"Good girl."

Tiffany's eyes went wider, not from shock this time. She was dripping wet, squirming under a command from a stranger in a backwards cap, and she wanted to punch him for it. Carol, two stools down, mouthed that she was not leaving. Tiffany caught it in the mirror behind the bottles and almost laughed, except nothing about this was funny.

"You sat down like you own the damn stool," Tiffany said. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Cole Bennett." He let go of her chin like he had all the time in the world. "And I sat down because that mouth of yours is the most honest thing I've heard all week."

"That's a line."

"That's a fact. You always this charming, or is Friday special?"

"Don't you dare say good girl if you don't mean it."

His smile didn't fade. "I meant it."

She took a swallow of whiskey and hated how her hand wanted to shake. "Nice cap. You wear it backwards so people know you're still twelve?"

"I wear it so I can see your face when you try to cut me down to size. You're what, five-four? That's a lot of attitude in a small package."

"I'm forty-four, not a package. And you're wearing motorcycle boots to a bar that sells chicken wings. Let me guess. Harley."

"Road Glide. Black. Pickup, too, if you're keeping score. You always inventory a man before you decide he's not worth your time?"

"I've had eight months of quiet. I'm not looking to fill it with a man who thinks a chin grab is a personality."

Cole's eyes stayed on hers. He did not flinch. He did not apologize. "Your attitude is why I sat down. Not a problem I came here to fix."

That landed harder than the grip had. Tiffany looked away first, at the wet ring her glass had left on the wood, at Carol's eyebrows doing gymnastics. Carol lifted her beer in a toast that said I am staying until you are in your car or I am calling someone.

"Your friend going to glare at me all night?" Cole asked.

"That's Carol. She'll fight God for me and then order nachos. Don't take it personally."

"I'm not. You want another drink, or you want an honest ride home?"

"I don't need a man."

"I'm not offering to be needed."

Tiffany's mouth went dry. She should have told him to get off the stool. She should have paid her tab and walked. Instead she finished the whiskey and felt the burn all the way down, and when she stood, Cole stood with her, not crowding, just there.

The parking lot was cold enough that her breath showed. Gravel under boots. The Iron Lantern's door thumped shut behind them, cutting off the jukebox. Carol came out anyway, arms crossed, perfume fighting the night air.

"I've got eyes on you," Carol said to Cole. "She's got kids. You screw this up, I know people."

"I'm taking her to her car if she wants that," Cole said. "Or mine. She decides."

Tiffany rolled her eyes. "I'm standing right here."

Carol pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then at Cole, then went back inside like a woman who had done her job and would wait by the window anyway.

Cole stopped beside a black pickup that looked like it worked for a living. "I'm going to kiss you. Yes or no."

Tiffany should have said no. She said, "Yes," and hated how fast it came.

He asked, and then he kissed her like he had been thinking about it since the chin. Filthy and careful at the same time, his hand at the back of her neck, his mouth open, his beard scraping her skin in a way that made her press closer. She fisted his T-shirt. He tasted like beer and patience. When he pulled back, her lips felt used.

"Truck," he said. "We talk first."

She climbed into the passenger side because she was an idiot and because her jeans were already a problem. He got in, shut the door, and did not start the engine. The cab smelled like leather and him.

"No kids talk," Cole said, voice even. "Not tonight. Safeword is red. You say stop, I stop. You say red, I stop. I will check in. You are not a project and you are not a conquest. You with me?"

Tiffany stared at the dash. "I'm not going home with a stranger."

"This isn't home. This is a truck in a parking lot. You can get out."

She sat there with her heart punching her ribs. Then she climbed into his lap anyway, knees bracketing his thighs, her height making her feel small in a way she usually refused to feel. His hands settled on her hips like they belonged there.

"Look at me," he said.

She looked. He was hard under her, obvious through denim, and he did not grind up like a kid. He waited.

"Ride my thigh," he said. "Clothes on. You come when I tell you."

"Fuck you."

"Later. Right now you do what I said."

She should have climbed off. She moved instead, the seam of her jeans dragging against his thigh, friction stupid and perfect. Heat built too fast. She was already wet from the bar, from good girl, from the kiss that had asked. Cole held her hips and let her work, watching her face like it was the only interesting thing in the county.

"There," he murmured. "Don't hide it. I can feel how soaked you are through two layers. That's for me, isn't it?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not. I'm telling you the truth. Slow down. I didn't say rush."

She slowed because her body listened even when her mouth didn't. The ache sharpened. She cursed under her breath, then louder when he squeezed her ass and pulled her down harder.

"Cole—"

"Not yet."

She hated him. She rolled her hips anyway, chasing it, stubborn even in this. When he finally said, "Now. Come," she broke with a sound she did not recognize, shaking in his lap, fully clothed, forehead dropping to his shoulder while her cunt clenched around nothing. Humiliation and relief tangled. He stroked her back once, then twice, and did not gloat.

"Good," he said. "Color."

"What?"

"Green, yellow, red. I need a word."

"Green," she snapped. "Jesus."

He smiled against her hair. "Then get these jeans down. One boot. That's all I need."

She fumbled the button. He helped, patient, yanking denim and underwear down one leg until they tangled at her ankle. Cold air on wet skin. She was exposed in a truck cab with a man she had met an hour ago, and she still did not get out.

His fingers found her, slick, and he swore softly like she had surprised him. He pushed two fingers into her without preamble, thick and sure, thumb finding her clit like he had a map. She grabbed the headrest. He fucked her with his hand until she soaked his jeans, messy, shameless, her thighs shaking.

"You're going to come on my fingers," he said. "Then I'm going to fuck you in the back seat. Condom in the console. You still green?"

"Green. God. Don't stop."

He didn't. He curled his fingers and she came again, clenching around him, wet enough that she heard it. Mortifying. Perfect. He withdrew, licked his fingers without breaking eye contact, and reached for the console.

"Back," he said.

They tumbled over the seat like teenagers with better bones. He got his jeans open, rolled the condom on, and pulled her over him. Her jeans still hung off one boot. He gripped her chin again, the same hold from the bar, and she felt that same stupid rush of wet heat.

"You look at me when you come," he said. "You don't hide. You don't perform. You take it."

He pushed into her in one long stroke. She was tight from going too long without, from nerves, from him, and the stretch punched a sound out of her throat. He held still until she nodded, then he moved, deep, controlled, the truck rocking on its springs. His hands spanned her waist. She was small on him and she felt every inch.

"Fuck," she breathed. "Cole—"

"I know. Stay with me. That's it. Mouth shut unless you're saying red or my name."

She almost argued. Then he thrust harder and she forgot how. He fucked her like he had all night and like he would stop the second she asked, and that combination wrecked her more than roughness would have. She tried to look away. He tugged her chin back.

"Eyes."

She came looking at him, helpless, clenching around his cock, a broken noise she would think about later and hate. He followed with a groan into her neck, hips jerking, his hold on her face gentling only after it was over.

They stayed like that until the windows fogged and her knee cramped. He pulled out carefully, dealt with the condom, helped her get her jeans back on one-handed. No jokes. No sudden distance. He found napkins in the door pocket like a man who planned for messes.

"I can still drive you to your car," he said. "I'm going to wait until it starts."

Tiffany sat in the passenger seat again, hair wrecked, mouth swollen, body humming in a way she had not allowed in years. "I don't do this."

"I know."

"You don't know me."

"I know you tried to dismiss me and you still came when I told you to. That's data, not a character flaw." He started the truck. "Where's your car?"

She pointed. He drove the thirty yards like it was a real trip, parked beside her sedan, and did not get out until she had her keys in her hand. He waited, engine idling, while she sat in her own driver's seat and turned the key. The engine caught. He watched her face through two windshields, then lifted two fingers off the wheel.

Her phone buzzed before she even put it in drive. Unknown number, except it wasn't unknown anymore because she had given it to him between the kiss and the truck without remembering the moment she had done it.

One line: still here.

Tiffany stared at the screen until the words blurred. Carol would be inside, waiting to extract every filthy detail. Ryan would still exist in the morning, circling the way he always had. The kids would be at Sienna's, routines intact, none of this theirs to know.

She put the phone face down on the passenger seat and sat with both hands on the wheel. Her chin still felt like his fingers. Her body still felt like a decision she had not meant to make. She told herself she would block the number. She told herself she would not text back.

She started the car and pulled out of the lot with Cole's headlights in her rearview until she turned onto the main road, and even then she felt him there, stubborn as her own mouth, not offering to be needed, still here anyway.