The pub was buzzing – laughter echoing off old brick walls, glasses clinking, low music curling around the conversations. But in our corner booth, tucked into shadow, none of that mattered.

You sat close, your thigh against mine, your arm stretched casually across the back of the seat, fingers tracing lazy lines on the nape of my neck. Your voice was low in my ear, teasing, dragging out the wait. You knew exactly what you were doing. So did I. That subtle tension between us had been building since the drinks arrived.

Then your hand slipped under the table.

I shifted slightly, parting my legs just enough to give you room. The thrill of it lit up every nerve in my body. You didn’t hesitate — fingers slipping up the inside of my thigh, finding the edge of my panties, then sliding under them like you owned the space.

I gasped softly. You were already stroking through my folds, slow and deliberate, your fingers gliding against slick heat. I gripped the edge of the table hard enough to turn my knuckles white, forcing myself not to moan, not to move, not to draw attention.

Your touch was torturous — gentle circles over my clit, dipping inside me just enough to make me twitch with need. My hips shifted forward, chasing your hand under the pretense of adjusting in my seat. I glanced around, the bar still oblivious to the fact that I was being fingered like a whore in a pub booth.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” you murmured with a smirk, voice like velvet and sin.

When you pulled your hand away, I nearly whimpered. But you brought your fingers to your lips, tasting me with a dark, satisfied look before standing up and offering your hand.

We left our half-finished drinks behind.

Outside, the street was half-lit and quiet, the air thick with the scent of beer and spring rain. You guided me around the corner to a narrow alley, damp stone walls still glistening from a recent shower. The second we were alone, your hands were on me again — my back slammed against the wall, your mouth on my neck, fingers already working my panties down my thighs.

“I need you,” I whispered against your lips.

You didn’t say a word. You just spun me around, pressing me forward, my hands bracing against the cool brick. I could hear the sound of your zipper, feel the heat of your breath behind me as you pushed up my skirt.

You slid your cock through my folds, thick and hot and slick from how soaked I already was. No teasing now. You drove into me in one deep, hard thrust that knocked the air from my lungs. I moaned, louder than I meant to, and you didn’t stop.

You gripped my hips and pounded into me like you didn’t care who might hear, who might turn the corner and see me pinned to a wall, my face flushed, my breath ragged, dress bunched around my waist. And I didn’t care either. Not anymore.

The slap of skin on skin echoed through the alley as you fucked me harder, deeper. One hand slid around to my front, fingers rubbing fast circles on my clit while you stayed buried inside me. I was a mess — moaning, whimpering, arching back into you shamelessly.

My orgasm hit hard and sudden, my body clenching tight, thighs shaking, the sounds that left my mouth raw and unfiltered. You kept going through it, driving me straight into another, barely giving me a chance to breathe.

Then I felt your rhythm stutter — your grip tightening, your hips jerking as you came inside me with a low, rough groan. You pressed yourself deep one last time, panting against the back of my neck.

For a long moment, we just stood there — you still inside me, my cheek against the brick, legs barely holding me up. Anyone could’ve walked by. But no one did. And if they had, neither of us would’ve stopped.

Because when the need takes over, there’s no space for shame. Only hunger. Only the heat between us, burning too hot to contain.