Insatiable | 18+

I

"Hello!" I called out to the bartender for the third time in vain, knowing there was no way he'd notice me out of the number of patrons vying for his attention.

But I was so thirsty.

"Yoohoo?" I tried again, willing to settle for anything he could offer me. He was now all the way at the other side of the bar preparing another person's drink, and at this rate it'd be an hour before he gets to me. With an exasperated sigh, I rested my forearms on the counter and slumped against it.

All I wanted was just one damn drink.

I wasn't planning to give up though. If I didn't have that drink, I'd likely go online and give this establishment a 1-star review for the obvious lack of manpower. Who even allowed their club to operate with only one bartender working the shift?

"Tough luck, huh?" Someone spoke from next to me, reminding me I wasn't alone.

"Ugh," I groaned in frustration, my mouth utterly dry. "I'm seriously contemplating going behind the bar to make myself one."

"You can have mine, if you don't mind." The stranger angled his body towards me and slid his beverage along the marble top.

One sniff and I could tell it was bourbon neat, way too strong for my liking, but beggars can't be choosers here. I can't describe what compelled me, but my body wasn't entirely against the idea and slowly inched closer.

He seemed to anticipate me accepting it and opened up his legs for me to stand in-between. I could blame the pushing crowd behind me, but maybe it was just me who merely wanted more of him than just his drink.

I could barely figure out his looks with how dark the club was, but I would recognize a man in a suit anywhere. He was dressed smartly and didn't seem repulsive. I probably should have reconsidered taking a stranger's drink but my throat was objecting, and I gulped down my first sip from his glass.

Ooooh, it burned. But it burned good.

"Slow down." He told me from where he sat on the barstool. "It wouldn't be so quick until you can get a refill." He reminded me and I giggled. He was right. The bartender would probably only come over here in half an hour.

Placing the glass down, I shifted my body to face him and could vaguely picture him in my head. He had his hair combed-back and they were dark. The neon lights in there weren't helping with how they flicker every so often, but I could also make out a trimmed beard.

Damn, and he smelled good. He wasn't completely reeked of cologne, but I could still smell that distinct Hugo Boss on him.

What was I going to say? I was never good at talking to strangers, which pretty much explained why I was here alone in a club—desperately trying to buy myself a drink. Yet now, I was almost chest close with a stranger who just offered me a sip of his drink. A drink that he must've drank, and a drink that I didn't even know was spiked or clean. Rookie mistake.

I was about to thank him and pull away when I felt the slightest touch of his fingertips at the back of my knee. It was warm, and no, it didn't jolt electricity. But it made me feel something. Desirable?

He didn't say anything, and neither did I. His fingers were making a path on their own, trailing slowly and faintly up my thighs; causing goosebumps to raise all over my exposed skin. I couldn't even begin to describe how his simple touch could feel this good, but it did.

He continued to pleasure me that way, never once letting his fingers go beyond the hem of my dress. He would reach the back of my upper thigh and go back down again, and I eventually trembled from how good and nerve-wrecking it felt that he had to catch my knees from buckling.