Ink on Ivory

Day 6: Beatrice

I'd seen him the second he walked through the door, his tall frame dark against the dim lights of the bar. I'd heard the talk around town, the whispers and gasps that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Some of the women at the bar that night threw quick glances in his direction, watching him like he was a rare specimen they couldn't quite figure out.

But I wasn't about to make a fool of myself. I'd heard plenty of men make promises only to fall short, so I kept myself behind the bar, wiping down the counter, pretending not to notice the stranger who'd suddenly turned the whole room's attention.

"Bea, ain't you gonna give him a drink?" Tom called from his stool near the end of the bar, smirking as he raised his glass in my direction. He'd been trying to get me to go out with him for months, but I'd always kept him at arm's length. Just like all the others.

But tonight, I felt a different thrill, one I couldn't ignore. So I poured a drink, my heart pounding a little harder than I cared to admit, and slid the glass over to him.

"On the house," I said, my voice steady, keeping my gaze level as his dark eyes met mine. He didn't say a word, just nodded, and took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving me. I felt a strange thrill course through me, a quiet dare in his look, as if he was waiting for me to make the next move.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything?" I asked, my voice laced with a playful challenge, leaning over the bar just enough to catch his attention. Most men would've taken the bait, fumbled for words, maybe cracked a joke. But he just looked at me, calm and confident, his gaze holding mine like he had all the time in the world.

"I don't need to say anything," he replied, his voice a low rumble, and I felt my stomach flip, a heat rising in my cheeks. There was something about his tone that made me want to abandon the game, to just let myself fall into whatever this was.

The other patrons watched as he stood, moving with a quiet grace that set him apart. I'd never brought anyone upstairs to my place above the bar, never given anyone that satisfaction, but tonight felt different. There was a daring thrill in it, a chance to make every man here understand that he'd won something they never could.

"Follow me," I said, keeping my voice steady, pretending my hands weren't shaking as I led him up the narrow staircase to my place. I could feel their eyes on me, the murmurs and mutters, as I disappeared with him up the stairs, but I didn't look back. The thrill of it was as intoxicating as the liquor on the shelves.

When we reached my room, he closed the door behind us, his gaze fixed on me, steady, like he was studying every inch, every thought that flitted across my mind. I was used to being in control, to calling the shots, but with him, I felt that familiar confidence slipping, replaced by a need I couldn't quite name.

"Beatrice," he murmured, taking a step closer, his hands finding my waist, his touch warm, grounding, and I felt myself lean into it, drawn to the strength beneath his steady exterior.

For the first time, I didn't have to play a role. There was no flirtation, no games—just his presence, his steady hands guiding me, drawing me into him. His mouth found mine, firm and sure, and I let myself melt into it, feeling the heat build between us, the thrill of surrender settling over me.

He lifted me, guiding me back toward the bed, his movements smooth, controlled, and I let myself be taken, my body responding to every touch, every shift in his rhythm. His hands were firm on my hips, steady as he moved over me, each movement slow and deliberate, as though he was savoring every second, every breath.

The world faded away, the sounds from the bar below slipping into silence, leaving only the steady rhythm of his body against mine, grounding me, filling me with a heat that spread through every inch of me. I clung to him, feeling the thrill build, each touch, each kiss, sending waves of pleasure through me until I felt myself come undone, his presence anchoring me, holding me steady as I let go.

And then, with a final, shuddering breath, he reached his peak, his release filling me in a way that felt so complete, so final, that I knew there'd be no going back.

We lay there for a while, the silence settling between us, a quiet understanding that went beyond words. I didn't feel the need to send him away, didn't feel the usual urge to reclaim my space. Instead, I felt a sense of satisfaction, of something deeper, something real.

When he finally rose to leave, he gave me a quiet nod, his gaze soft, and I knew he understood. And as he slipped back downstairs, past the watchful eyes of everyone below, I felt a sense of pride—a thrill at having chosen someone who didn't need to be chosen, someone who had given me something that no one else could.