The bell on the door rings, and I look up from the computer. He’s standing in the doorway of the restaurant, tall, eyes dark when they snap to mine. My heart stops, kickstarts again with a bang as the moment stretches out between us.

His hair is almost black and flecked with snow, and he runs a hand through it before shaking off his jacket to the beat of my heart. I don’t know his name, but he comes to the restaurant often, sits in the same half-booth so he can look out the window at the New York street, though I’ve only waited on him a few times. I prefer it that way. The times that I have were tense. Intense.

The hostess smiles and touches his arm as she gestures to his table, and he sits, not seeming to notice her eyelashes as they fanned at him, her lips as she wet them. He shrugs out of his jacket as she walks away, moves his menu to the edge of the table. And then he looks right at me.

My eyes drop hastily to my notepad, though the words are jumbled up and backwards as my mind scrambles to find solid ground. It’s always like this. I usually escape to the alley to smoke, find something to stock. Avoid the dining room like the plague because I don’t understand what he does to me.

I swallow deep and put on my smile, that one that seems so genuine but is just for show, the necessary illusion of joy in serving people steak and chocolate cake. And with that securely in place, I walk around the counter and to his table.

I greet him with as much distance as I can even though I feel smothered, and I ask him what he wants to drink, steeling myself under the weight of his gaze. He answers simply, “Coffee, please.” But the words are deep and rumbling, a promise or a curse, I’m not sure. My eyes are on his lips, and I look down at my pen while I jot the word down.

When I look back at him, his eyes are shadowed and hot on mine. But he glances down, touches his menu, drags his fingers down the page as he orders his food. Every word sounds filthy leaving his lips. My cheeks are warm as I nod and take a sloppy note, and when the door opens, a chill hits me. We both look toward the door, to the elderly woman who the hostess seats just down from where we are. He looks back to me and hands me the menu, fingers brushing against mine. The sensation sends a shock through me, and I know he feels it too. He rests his fingertips against my skin, shifting them softly before sliding his hand away.

I smile to hide, grateful that he can’t hear my heart beat. I wonder if he noticed the quickening of my breath, curious if he could see from my tight, black shirt that my nipples are taught. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not, not after the way he looked at me. It was silent permission, and it’s made me bolder, braver. I want him to know what he does to my body simply by proximity.

He pushes his hair back from his face, lips curved into a smile, eyes lingering on me for a moment as I close my book and slip it into my apron. I shift my legs to relieve the pressure between my thighs, but the action only makes the slow throbbing worse.

I turn to leave, hips swaying as I walk back to the computer, feeling his eyes on me as I stand in front of the screen, putting in his order with every ounce of concentration I have, mind reeling as I stare dumbly at the screen.

The second I’m finished, I rush to the back, keeping myself busy while the kitchen cooks his food, only going back to the dining room once to find out if he needs anything. When I ask, he answers, “No.” But I hear him say You. His smile says it. His eyes scream it.

He eats his steak, and I watch him from the computer again with my face down, eyes darting up occasionally to catch glimpses of his fork sliding out of his lips, his big hands when he grips his knife to cut his meat, his napkin when he presses it to his mouth. His hand as he lays his napkin back in his lap, lingering for a moment on his cock. I wonder if I imagined it. But he looks up and meets my eyes, and I know.

Adrenaline bolts through me at the realization. He sets his napkin down, nodding to me ever so slightly as he slips out of the booth, walks past the computer and to the restroom. His eyes are locked on mine. My knees are goo. I hear the restroom door creak closed and only hesitate for a moment before I follow.

The hallway is dark, quiet, and I reach the door, reach for the handle. Maybe it’s locked. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m just taking the fantasy too far, getting caught up in the moment. But maybe I’m right.

I lay my hand on the cold handle and turn until the door is open.

He’s leaning on the counter, his shoulders wide, back to me, but the second he hears me, he spins around. The door closes behind me with a squeak, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. But before it’s closed, he rushes me.

I step back, heart pounding. My back presses against the door, and he doesn’t stop moving, not until his nose is nearly touching mine and I’m caged in his arms. His chest heaves, hand falls to the doorknob. He locks it with a click.

And then, his lips crash into mine.

I can’t think when his fingers slip under my jaw, can’t get him close enough, but I try. His shirt is twisted in my hands, my hips flush with his body as he presses me against the door. His hands trail down my neck, squeeze my breast and release, fingertips circling my nipple before closing it between his fingers. He twists. I gasp.

His lips drag down my neck, and I stretch it out, give him all the skin he wants with my chin pointed high, hands scrambling for his belt, pulling it open with a snap and a clang. I slip my hands into his pants, and my body clenches when I wrap my hand around his cock, hard and hot in my palm. He sucks in a breath against my skin and moans, presses himself into me hard enough that I can’t move.

In a split second, his arms are around my waist and he’s spinning us around, turns me to face the mirror, buries his face in my neck. My arms are trembling as I rest my hands on the counter, open my heavy lids when he reaches under my apron and unbuttons my pants, pulls them off fast enough to nearly burn. His hand trails down my ass, between my legs, and he slides a finger up my soaking slit only once before his hand disappears. I need him. I tell him.

He bends me over, and I feel his cock against me as he strokes me with it once, twice, then slips his head in and flexes.

A cry passes my lips, and he lays his chest against my back, trails a hand up my ribs, up my breasts and neck, grips my mouth as he whispers in my ear, “Shhh.”

He pulls out and slams back in as I bite my lip with fluttering lids. Out and in. I can taste the salt on his fingers, hear him humming in my hear, feel the rumble agains my back. Again. He hits the end of me with a jolt. Again. My body quakes. He slips a finger in my mouth, and I can taste myself. I want more.

Again.

My body explodes, heart stopping for a moment when my body tightens around him, the release rolling through me in waves. I’m barely able to hold myself up as he drives into me faster, the soft pat of skin echoing quietly off the tiled walls, hand gripping my lips, teeth against the skin on my neck as he comes with a muffled groan.

He slows. I pry my eyes open and meet his in the mirror. His lips press into the hollow behind my ear, and he whispers, “Finally.”