Parallel Lines Never Touch Until They Do

I trade my running clothes for the red Quick & Go polo, tucking it into my khakis with mechanical precision. Kenny, the day shift manager, is already grabbing his jacket.

"You're early," he says, eyebrows raised.

I shrug. "Ran faster today."

The lie comes easily. I didn't run any faster than usual. I just skipped the cool-down stretches, the small talk, and drove directly here, my hair still damp with sweat.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as I settle behind the counter. Wednesday nights are slow—just the occasional commuter grabbing cigarettes or a forgotten gallon of milk. It gives me too much time to think.

I straighten the lottery ticket display. Wipe down the counter. Restock the receipts. I check my phone: 8:47 PM.

He usually comes in around 9. Not that I've memorized his schedule or anything.

At 9:06, the bell above the door jingles. My head snaps up so fast I feel a twinge in my neck.

Nathan walks in, his presence immediately filling the small space. His hair is still damp, but from a shower now, not sweat. He smells like soap and something sharper beneath it—a scent I can only catch when he passes close by.

He doesn't look at me. He never does. Just moves through the aisles with that intense focus, like he's solving complex equations in his head.

I busy myself with the register, pretending I haven't been waiting for this moment for hours. Pretending my heart isn't suddenly hammering against my ribs.

When he approaches the counter, his eyes are fixed somewhere over my left shoulder. In his hand is the same blue Gatorade he buys three times a week.

I take it from him, careful not to let our fingers touch.

"That'll be two fifty," I say, my voice coming out softer than I intended.

He doesn't respond. Just pulls his card from his wallet and taps it against the reader. The machine beeps its approval.

I hold out the receipt, but he never takes them. Instead, he grabs his Gatorade and turns away.

I watch him go, my eyes tracing the breadth of his shoulders, the straight line of his spine. The door jingles again, and he's gone.

That's it. That's the sum total of our interaction—a wordless transaction that lasts less than thirty seconds. But somehow, in those fleeting moments, the air between us feels charged with something I can't name.

I exhale slowly, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath. My reflection in the security mirror behind the counter shows a woman with flushed cheeks and overly bright eyes. I look away quickly, embarrassed by the naked want I see there.

The rest of my shift stretches ahead, empty and quiet. I'll restock the cooler, mop the floors, count the register at midnight. And I'll replay these thirty seconds with Nathan over and over in my mind, searching for meaning in silences, in averted gazes, in the careful distance he maintains.

It's pathetic. I know it is. But I can't seem to stop myself.

The QuickMart shift had almost killed me. Ten hours on my feet dealing with people and their inane questions. "Do you have those chips? The ones on TV? With the guy?" Jesus.

I throw my keys on the kitchen counter and check the clock. Almost midnight. I should sleep, but my body vibrates with the same restless energy that's been gnawing at me all day.

I know what would help.

My phone buzzes—a text from Miguel about our fantasy football league. I flop onto my mattress, still made with military corners from this morning, and tap out a quick response.

I need release. It's been three days, and the pressure has been building all shift, making it hard to focus. Every time a female customer leaned over the counter, my eyes wandered to the curve of her neck, the shadow between her breasts.

But it wasn't just any woman I was thinking about.

I set my phone on the nightstand and reach for the lotion in the drawer. I squirt a generous amount into my palm, the cool liquid a promise of relief. My other hand works at my belt buckle, then the button of my jeans, freeing my already hardening cock.

As I wrap my slick hand around myself, I close my eyes and summon her face. Abigail. The shy cashier from the gas station. I've been watching her for months now. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's nervous. The curve of her ass when she bends to stock the lower shelves.

My hand starts to move faster, twisting slightly at the head of my cock the way I like. In my mind, it's her hand. Her mouth. Her eyes looking up at me as she takes me deep into her throat.

"Fuck," I whisper to the empty room.

My hips thrust upward into my fist. The bed creaks beneath me as my pace becomes more frantic. Pre-cum leaks from the tip, mixing with the lotion to create the perfect slick friction.

In my fantasy, I've got Abigail bent over that counter of hers, her uniform pants around her ankles. I'm driving into her pussy from behind, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks.

The fantasy is so vivid I can almost hear her moans mingling with mine. My breath comes in harsh pants now, and I'm making sounds I'd be embarrassed about if anyone could hear—desperate, animal grunts that echo in the empty apartment.

I'm close. So close. The tension builds at the base of my spine, my balls drawing tight against my body. My free hand grips the sheets, knuckles turning white as I arch my back.

"God... fuck... Abigail," I groan as the climax hits me like a freight train.

Hot cum spurts onto my stomach, my hand still pumping, milking every last drop from my throbbing cock. The release is so intense my vision blurs at the edges.

When the last aftershock subsides, I lie there panting, staring at the ceiling. Reality crashes back in, along with the familiar wave of emptiness that always follows. I reach for the tissues beside my bed, cleaning myself up with mechanical efficiency.

My phone buzzes again. I grab it, squinting at the bright screen.

Fuck.

My heart stops. My Instagram app is open. Not to my feed, but to my story. There's a black screen with an audio waveform pulsing across it. I stare at it, uncomprehending, then notice the counter in the corner: 1 view.

Horror washes over me in a cold wave as I realize what's happened. Somehow—fuck, how?—I've accidentally recorded and posted my masturbation session to my Instagram story. The entire world could have heard me groaning Abigail's name as I jerked off.

I delete it instantly, hands shaking so badly I almost drop the phone. One view. Just one. But who? Who heard me? And how much did they hear?

I scroll frantically through my followers list. Most are friends from high school or college, people I rarely talk to anymore. A few are from the run club. Including her. Abigail.

My stomach twists into a knot. No. It can't be her. It can't.

But the timestamp on the view matches the time of posting perfectly. Someone saw it immediately. Someone was watching their phone, watching my stories, at exactly the right moment to catch my most private, vulnerable moment.

I throw the phone across the room like it's burned me. It hits the wall and clatters to the floor.

I'm never going to the QuickMart again. I'm never going to run club again. I'm moving to fucking Alaska where no one knows me.

Because if it was her—if it was Abigail who heard me—I'll never be able to look her in the eye again.

I've been avoiding him. It's been a week since the Instagram incident, and every time I catch a glimpse of Nathan, my face goes hot and I have to look away. I know that he doesn't know. I know that he has no idea I heard him – heard everything – but still, I can't meet his eyes without hearing those sounds in my head: the rhythmic slapping, that desperate groan, my name on his lips.

Today at run club, I kept my distance. Even when Coach Martin paired us all up for stretches, I quietly switched with Miguel so I wouldn't have to touch Nathan, wouldn't have to feel his hands on my shoulders while those sounds played in my head.

Now the run is over, and I'm drenched in sweat. The summer heat is brutal today – ninety-three degrees according to the bank sign we passed on mile two. My shirt is plastered to my back, and my ponytail hangs heavy and wet against my neck.

I push open the heavy metal door to the park's bathroom. It's an old, concrete building that smells perpetually of bleach and standing water. Not ideal, but better than driving home soaked in sweat.

The main door creaks as it swings shut behind me. I'm heading for the women's section when I notice something from the corner of my eye. The men's stall door is slightly ajar, swinging gently on its broken hinge.

And there he is.

Nathan.

Completely naked.

My breath catches in my throat. I freeze, unable to move, unable to look away.

His back is to me, bronzed skin stretched over lean muscle. A white towel hangs loosely from one hand while the other rubs his hair dry. Water droplets cascade down his spine, following the perfect V-shape of his back until they disappear between two round, firm cheeks.

My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it echo off the concrete walls. I should move. I should leave. This is wrong, a violation of his privacy. But my feet feel welded to the floor as my eyes trace the contours of his shoulders, the dimples at the base of his spine, the strong thighs below.

Then he shifts his weight, beginning to turn.

The spell breaks. I stumble backward, my sneakers squeaking against the wet floor. Before he can fully turn, before he can see me standing there gawking like some pervert, I spin around and push through the heavy door, practically running back into the sunlight.

Outside, I press my back against the rough concrete wall, my chest heaving. What is wrong with me? First, I listened to his most private moment. Now I'm peeping at him in the bathroom? This isn't who I am. I don't do things like this.

And yet, the image of his naked form is seared into my memory just as permanently as the sounds from that night. I close my eyes, but it only makes the picture clearer: the way his muscles moved under his skin, the perfect curve of his ass, the water trailing down his back.

I push off from the wall and head toward my car with quick steps. I need to get home. I need a cold shower. I need to stop thinking about Nathan and his body and the way he said my name when he touched himself.

But even as I fumble for my keys, I know it's too late. These images – the sounds, the sights – they're mine now. And tonight, when I'm alone in my bed, they'll be there waiting for me, no matter how hard I try to push them away.

I slip in through my apartment door, barely noticing anything around me. The drive home is a blur in my memory. Did I even stop at the red lights? I can't recall.

My bedroom feels like a sanctuary and a prison all at once. I drop my gym bag by the door and kick off my shoes, not bothering with the lights. The darkness feels safer somehow, like it might hide me from my own thoughts.

I should shower. I'm still sticky with dried sweat from the run, my hair tangled and matted against my neck. But I can't. Not yet. My body is humming with something I can't control, something that's been building since I heard those sounds from Nathan's accidental post, something that exploded into life when I saw him naked in that bathroom stall.

I lie down on my bed, still fully clothed. This is how I always do it – in the dark, clothes on, under the covers if possible. As if somehow that makes it less real, less shameful. My usual ritual of restraint.

But tonight is different. Tonight there's no abstract fantasy, no faceless man from a movie or book. There's only Nathan. Nathan's broad shoulders. Nathan's muscled back tapering to narrow hips. Nathan's round, perfect ass. Nathan's voice, groaning in the darkness of his room as he touched himself.

My hand slides down to the button of my jeans. I shouldn't be doing this. Not to thoughts of someone I know. Someone I see every week. It's perverted. It's wrong.

"Stop," I whisper to myself. But my fingers don't listen. They pop the button open, drag the zipper down, slip beneath the elastic of my underwear.

I'm so wet already. My fingers slide easily through my folds, finding the slick heat at my entrance. I pull that wetness up, circling my clit with a familiar rhythm.

"This is wrong," I tell myself again, even as my hips lift slightly off the bed.

In my mind, Nathan's Instagram story plays on repeat. The desperate rhythm of skin against skin. The wet sounds of his hand moving fast on his cock. The catch in his breathing just before he came.

I press harder against my clit, my breathing matching the pace of the memory.

Then the image from today takes over – Nathan naked, water streaming down his back. But in my fantasy, he turns around. In my fantasy, I see all of him. I see his cock, hard and jutting forward. I imagine him walking toward me, water dripping from his body, his eyes dark with want.

"Fuck," I whisper, the word foreign and thrilling on my tongue. My middle finger dips inside, then two fingers, stretching myself as I imagine it's him. My thumb keeps working my clit in tight circles.

In my mind, Nathan pushes me against the bathroom wall. His mouth is on my neck, his hands rough as they pull at my clothes. "I've seen how you look at me," fantasy-Nathan growls in my ear, and I whimper in my empty bedroom.

My fingers move faster. I'm so close already. My thighs start to tremble.

Fantasy-Nathan shoves my shorts down, lifts one of my legs around his waist. "Is this what you want?" he asks, and I nod frantically, both in the fantasy and here, alone in my dark room.

Then he's pushing inside me, filling me completely, and I curl my fingers inside myself, trying to replicate the sensation. It's not enough, not nearly enough, but I'm too far gone to care.

"Please, please," I'm whispering to no one. My back arches off the bed as the tension builds low in my abdomen. My toes curl. My free hand grips the bedsheet.

Then it breaks over me in waves – pleasure so intense it's almost pain. My pussy clenches around my fingers as I come, Nathan's name a silent scream on my lips.

I don't stop, can't stop. I keep going, riding it out until the aftershocks fade and my body goes limp against the mattress.

The silence afterward feels heavy. My breath gradually slows. The sweat cools on my skin.

For the first time, the shame doesn't immediately follow. Instead, there's just a strange, hollow ache. A longing for something I've never had before. Not just release, but connection. Not just fantasy, but reality.

I pull my hand from my jeans and roll onto my side, curling into myself. My phone on the nightstand shows it's not even 9PM yet. The night stretches before me, empty and quiet.

Tomorrow, I'll see him again at run club. I'll have to look at him, knowing what I've done. Knowing that behind my carefully constructed persona, I've crossed a line I can never uncross.

The thought should terrify me. But as I drift toward sleep, still in my running clothes with the taste of Nathan's name on my tongue, I find I'm only wondering what other lines I might be willing to cross.

My legs feel heavy as I push open the door to Flanagan's, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of stale beer. I'm only here because Marcos, the only other runner I halfway tolerate, insisted. "Just one beer, man. Stop being such a fucking hermit."

The Wednesday night crowd is sparse—a few locals hunched over the bar, some of the run club gathered in the back corner. I grab a beer and find an empty stool at the far end of the bar, away from everyone. I don't want conversation. I just want to drink my beer, fulfill my social obligation, and get the hell out.

My eyes drift across the room, landing on Abigail. She's sitting with Evelyn and a couple others, her back slightly turned to me. She looks different here—her hair loose around her shoulders instead of in that tight ponytail she always wears during runs. She's wearing a simple blue t-shirt, nothing special, but it hugs her body in ways her baggy running clothes never do.

I look away quickly. Ever since that Instagram fuck-up last week, I can barely look at her without feeling like the world's biggest pervert. I still don't know how it happened—I must have hit the wrong button while scrolling through stories after jerking off. The thought of who might have heard it, what they might think... I drain half my beer in one long pull.

Twenty minutes pass. I'm on my second beer when I notice Evelyn grab Abigail's arm and pull her toward the hallway where the bathrooms are. They disappear around the corner, and I turn back to my drink.

I'm not expecting to hear my name.

"Nathan. Can you believe it? Nathan!"

Evelyn's voice carries even over the jukebox. She's not exactly trying to be quiet. I freeze, my bottle halfway to my lips.

"Shhh! He might hear you!" That's Abigail's voice, softer but still audible.

"Who cares? It's not like he's here. Besides, don't you want to hear what he's like in bed?"

My stomach drops. What the fuck? I should leave. I should definitely leave. Instead, I set my beer down slowly and strain to hear over the music.

"I didn't ask—" Abigail sounds uncomfortable.

"Well, I'm telling you anyway. Holy shit, Abby. That quiet thing he does? It's not an act. The man barely said three words the entire time."

I sink lower on my stool, my face burning. Evelyn. Last Tuesday. Fuck. I'd almost forgotten.

"It started at his place," Evelyn continues, her voice dropping just enough that I have to really concentrate to hear. "We were having a drink, and then suddenly he just... I don't know how to explain it. It's like something snapped in him."

I remember. I remember exactly how it happened. How desperate I'd been after weeks of no release, how her constant flirting had finally broken through my resistance.

"He just grabbed me and pushed me against the wall. Hard. Like, my back was literally pressed flat against it, and his hand was in my hair, pulling just enough to hurt in that good way, you know?"

I close my eyes, mortified. I can picture exactly what I did to her.

"And then he was kissing me, but not like... sweet or anything. It was rough. All teeth and tongue. His other hand went straight up my skirt, not even trying to be smooth about it. Just straight to the point. He yanked my panties to the side and just started fingering me. Two fingers, right away."

Jesus. I glance around to see if anyone else can hear this, but no one's paying attention.

"And the whole time, he's still just... silent. No dirty talk, no 'does that feel good,' nothing. Just this intense focus, like fucking me was some kind of mission he'd been assigned."

I need to leave. Right now. But my legs won't move.

"His cock is... wow. Not super long, but thick. Like, stretch-you-out thick. And he knows how to use it."

Fuck fuck fuck. I drain my beer, signal for another.

"He bent me over the arm of his couch and just... God, Abby, he just rammed into me. No warning. One second his fingers were inside me, and the next he had his cock balls-deep in my pussy. I actually screamed a little."

I hear Abigail make a small sound—discomfort? Interest? I can't tell.

"He fucks like he's angry," Evelyn continues, her voice getting a little breathier. "Like, there's this tension in him that he's taking out on your body. His hands were everywhere—squeezing my tits, slapping my ass, grabbing my hips so hard I still have bruises. Look."

There's a rustling sound like she's showing something.

"Jesus, Ev," Abigail whispers.

"I know, right? So fucking hot. And he kept going forever. Like, I came twice before he even seemed close. When he finally did come, he pulled out and came all over my back. Still didn't make a sound except this one deep groan. Then he just... got up and went to the bathroom. Came back with a towel, cleaned me up, and asked if I wanted water."

I'm going to be sick. This is private. This shouldn't be—

"The weirdest part was after," Evelyn says, lowering her voice even more. "We were lying there, and he started... I don't know, lightly running his fingers over my skin. Like, really gentle. Complete opposite of how he'd just fucked me. Almost... tender? But he still barely said anything."

I remember that part too. The guilt that always comes after I've been too rough, too demanding.

"Would you do it again?" Abigail asks, her voice so quiet I can barely hear it.

"In a heartbeat," Evelyn laughs. "Best fuck I've had in years. But I don't think it's going to happen. He didn't text after. Didn't seem interested in a round two. I think he just needed to get something out of his system."

She has no idea how right she is.

"Anyway," Evelyn's voice returns to normal volume, "let's get back to the table before they wonder what we're doing."

They emerge from the hallway, and I duck my head, pretending to be fascinated by the label on my beer bottle. From the corner of my eye, I see Abigail. Her face is flushed, her eyes wide, and she's biting her lower lip. She looks... affected.

Our eyes meet for just a split second, and I know—I know—she's thinking about everything she just heard. About my hands. My cock. The way I fuck.

She looks away first, her blush deepening. My own face burns, a mixture of shame and something else. Something darker and more primal.

I throw some cash on the bar and leave without saying goodbye to anyone. The night air is cool on my overheated skin, but it does nothing to calm the storm brewing inside me.

I couldn't shake what Evelyn had told me. All day at the Quick & Go, my mind kept replaying her words, creating vivid images that made my skin flush and my breath catch. Every customer who came in blurred into background noise. All I could think about was Nathan.

"No talking, all action," Evelyn had said.

By closing time, I was a wreck. My panties had been damp for hours, my nipples sensitive against my bra. I'd never felt this way before—this constant, throbbing need. It was shameful. Wrong. I wasn't supposed to want a man like this, especially not after hearing such explicit details about him with another woman.

I flipped the sign to CLOSED and turned the deadbolt, my hands trembling slightly. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I counted the register, making two mistakes before finally getting it right. The QuickMart training manual strictly prohibited employees from leaving before all closing duties were complete—restocking, mopping, trash removal.

But I couldn't wait.

I slipped into the employee bathroom at the back of the store, locking the flimsy door behind me. The small space smelled of industrial cleaner and air freshener. I caught my reflection in the spotted mirror—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, parted lips. I barely recognized myself.

"This is crazy," I whispered, but my hands were already unbuttoning my jeans.

I leaned against the cold tile wall and closed my eyes. In my mind, I was in Nathan's apartment. I could see him clearly—those intense dark eyes, that permanent scowl, those large hands that Evelyn said left bruises.

My fingers slid beneath my panties, finding myself embarrassingly wet. I bit my lip, circling my clit slowly at first. It had never been this easy before. Usually when I touched myself, I had to work for it—concentrate, build up gradually. But now my body responded instantly, eagerly.

"He bent me over and just rammed into me," Evelyn had said.

I pictured it—Nathan behind me, his thick cock pushing into me without warning. My fingers moved faster, my breathing shallow. In my fantasy, his hands gripped my hips hard enough to hurt, just like he'd done to Evelyn.

"Oh god," I whispered, sliding two fingers inside myself, my thumb still working my clit. My other hand pressed against my mouth, stifling the sounds I couldn't control. "Nathan..."

His name fell from my lips without permission, and something about saying it out loud made everything more intense. I was close already, my internal muscles clenching around my fingers.

"Nathan," I gasped again, louder. "Please."

The door rattled.

My eyes flew open, but before I could react, the cheap lock gave way and the door swung inward.

Nathan stood in the doorway, his eyes widening in shock.

Time stopped. My hand was still down my pants. My face was flushed, my lips parted mid-pant. There was no mistaking what I'd been doing or whose name I'd been saying.

For one excruciating moment, we stared at each other. His eyes moved from my face to my hand and back up again, his expression a mixture of disbelief and something darker, hungrier.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't even pull my hand from my pants.

"I left my wallet," he finally said, his voice rough.

The spell broke. I yanked my hand free, fumbling to button my jeans with shaking fingers. Shame washed over me in a scalding wave.

"I—" My voice failed me. What could I possibly say?

Nathan took a step back, still staring at me. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his hands clenched at his sides.

"I heard you say my name," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, mortified. "I didn't—"

But before I could finish, he turned and walked away. I heard his rapid footsteps through the store, then the back service door opening and slamming shut.

I sank to the floor, burying my burning face in my hands. What had I done? How could I ever face him again? He would tell everyone. Evelyn. The run club. They'd all know what a desperate, pathetic pervert I was.

But beneath the shame, something else lingered—the way Nathan had looked at me. Not disgust. Not amusement. Something else entirely. Something that made the ache between my legs persist despite my humiliation.

I stayed on that bathroom floor for a long time, my body still throbbing with unsatisfied need, my mind replaying those few seconds over and over. The way his eyes had darkened when he heard his name on my lips. The way his breath had caught. The way he'd clenched his fists, as if stopping himself from reaching for me.

Tomorrow, I decided, I would call in sick. I would avoid the run club. I would hide from Nathan for as long as possible.

But even as I made these plans, a small, secret part of me wondered what would happen if I didn't.

I didn't call in sick. I couldn't. Rent was due next week, and I needed the hours.

I spent the day avoiding mirrors, keeping my eyes down when customers approached the counter. Every time the bell jingled above the door, my heart lurched into my throat. But Nathan never came in.

By the end of my shift, the tension had wound so tight in my chest I could barely breathe. I hurried through closing, desperate to get home and hide under my covers. As I searched my pockets for my car keys, I realized with a sinking feeling that they weren't there. I must have left them in the break room.

My cheeks burned as I approached the Quick & Go. The main entrance was locked—I'd done that myself fifteen minutes earlier—but the service bay around back had a faulty door that never latched properly. The mechanic was supposed to have fixed it weeks ago.

The service center was dark when I slipped inside, but a sliver of light leaked from beneath the stockroom door. I froze. Someone was here.

Then I heard it—that unmistakable sound of ragged breathing I'd heard before. The same rhythm I'd listened to on Nathan's accidental Instagram post.

I should have turned around. Should have walked away and come back for my keys tomorrow. Instead, I moved closer, drawn by a force I couldn't explain.

The stockroom door wasn't fully closed. Through the narrow opening, I could see him. Nathan stood with his back against a stack of oil filters, his jeans pushed down to his thighs. His hand moved frantically over his cock—thick and flushed dark with blood, the head glistening with pre-cum. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief.

"Abigail," he groaned, the word a broken plea.

I gasped. I couldn't help it.

His eyes snapped open, his hand freezing mid-stroke. For a moment, we stared at each other in perfect, horrified symmetry—the exact reversal of last night's encounter.

Slowly, I pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. The small space smelled of motor oil and sweat. I could see his chest rising and falling, the impressive length of him still hard in his grip.

"When I saw you..." I whispered, staring at the concrete floor. "In the bathroom. I was aroused."

Silence stretched between us, broken only by our uneven breathing.

"Me too," he finally muttered, not meeting my eyes. "When I saw you."

The air was thick with shame and desire, neither of us knowing how to bridge the gap between what we wanted and what we dared to ask for.

I took a tentative step forward, my eyes still downcast. "Can I..." My voice was barely audible. "Can I touch you?"

I heard him inhale sharply. Then suddenly the distance between us vanished. His hand gripped my arm—not gently—and he yanked me against him. His face buried in my hair, his breath hot against my scalp.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard," he growled, the words vibrating through my body.

Before I could respond, he spun me around and pushed me back against a stack of soda flats. His mouth crashed down on mine, hungry and demanding. There was nothing gentle in the way he kissed me—all teeth and tongue, consuming rather than caressing.

I should have been frightened by his intensity. Instead, I melted into it, my body responding with a need that matched his own.

His hands were everywhere—ripping at my jeans, shoving up my shirt, squeezing my breasts roughly through my bra. When he couldn't get my jeans down fast enough, he growled in frustration and simply tore the button off, the zipper giving way under his forceful tug.

"Wait," I gasped, but not because I wanted him to stop. "Condom?"

He fumbled in his back pocket, producing a foil packet. The fact that he carried one made me wonder how often he did this, but the thought vanished when his fingers found their way between my legs.

"Fuck," he hissed, finding me already soaking wet. "You're dripping."

Two thick fingers pushed inside me without warning, making me cry out. His other hand clamped over my mouth.

"Quiet," he warned. "Unless you want the night security guard to hear you getting finger-fucked in the stockroom."

I nodded against his palm, and he slowly removed it, replacing it with his mouth. This kiss was different—still urgent, but with an underlying tenderness that made my knees weak.

His fingers worked inside me, curling to hit a spot that made white-hot pleasure shoot up my spine. His thumb found my clit, circling it with just the right pressure. I moaned into his mouth, my hips rocking against his hand.

"Please," I whispered when he broke the kiss. "I need you inside me. Now."

Nathan withdrew his fingers and quickly rolled on the condom. He lifted me effortlessly, my back pressed against the soda flats, and positioned himself at my entrance. Our eyes locked, and for the first time, I saw vulnerability beneath his aggression.

Then he thrust into me, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

I cried out, the sensation overwhelming—a delicious burning stretch as my body accommodated his size. He didn't give me time to adjust, immediately setting a punishing rhythm, his fingers digging into my thighs, holding me open for him.

"Is this what you thought about?" he grunted, each thrust punctuated by the crinkle of cardboard behind me. "When you were touching yourself last night?"

"Yes," I admitted, the word breaking on a gasp as he angled his hips, hitting deeper.

"Say it," he demanded, slowing his pace torturously. "Tell me what you wanted."

"I wanted you to fuck me," I whispered, the words foreign on my tongue. I'd never talked like this before, never allowed myself to say these things out loud. "Hard. Like this."

Something like triumph flashed in his eyes. He rewarded me by increasing his pace, one hand moving between us to rub my clit in tight circles.

"I've wanted this since I first saw you," he confessed, his voice strained with effort. "Every time I came in for fucking coffee. Every time I saw you at run club. I'd go home and jerk off thinking about bending you over the counter."

His words pushed me closer to the edge. The wet sounds of our bodies meeting, the obscene slap of skin against skin, the precarious rattle of the soda flats behind me—it all combined into a symphony of desperation.

"I'm going to cum," I moaned, shocked by how quickly he'd brought me there.

"Do it," he commanded, his fingers working faster on my clit. "Cum on my cock."

My orgasm hit with stunning force, radiating outward from where we were joined, making my inner walls clench and pulse around him. I bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming, my nails digging into his back through his t-shirt.

He fucked me through it, his rhythm growing erratic as my body milked his cock. With a strangled groan, he pressed deep inside me and came, his entire body shuddering against mine.

For a long moment, we stayed like that, panting, still joined, the reality of what we'd done slowly seeping in. My back was sore from the edge of a cardboard box, my thighs trembling from being held open so long.

Nathan carefully lowered me to my feet, steadying me when my legs threatened to give way. He disposed of the condom in a nearby trash can, then helped me pull up my ruined jeans.

"I'm sorry about your pants," he said, his voice suddenly awkward, a stark contrast to the commanding presence of moments before.

I looked down at the missing button, the broken zipper. "It's okay."

We stood in uncomfortable silence, neither of us knowing what to say. The intensity that had carried us through was fading, leaving behind questions neither of us was prepared to answer.

"Your keys are on the break room table," he finally said. "I saw them earlier."

I nodded, smoothing down my shirt. "Thanks."

He stepped aside, giving me space to leave. As I passed him, his hand caught my wrist, stopping me. I looked up, meeting his eyes.

"Tomorrow night," he said. It wasn't a question.

I should have said no. Should have walked away and pretended this never happened. Instead, I nodded.

"Tomorrow night."

The night after our encounter in the stockroom, I returned. And the night after that. And every night for a week.

We never discussed it. Never acknowledged it outside the service center. At run club, Nathan kept his distance, his eyes sliding past me as if I were a stranger. At the counter, he remained the silent, brooding customer, handing over his money without meeting my gaze.

But each night, after I closed up, he would be waiting in the darkened garage.

Tonight marked a full week since that first time. My shift ended at eleven, and I went through the motions mechanically—counting the register, mopping the floor, turning off the lights. My body hummed with anticipation, already preparing for what was to come.

I slipped through the side door, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The service center was cavernous at night, the high ceiling disappearing into shadow, the concrete floor cold and hard beneath my sneakers. The air smelled of motor oil and metal.

He stepped out from behind a hydraulic lift, his face half-hidden in darkness. Neither of us spoke. We never did. Words weren't part of this thing between us—this hungry, desperate ritual.

Nathan wore his usual uniform of faded jeans and a black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. In the dim light filtering through the high windows, I could see the hard set of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes as he watched me approach.

My mouth went dry. Every time I saw him like this—waiting for me, wanting me—it sent a jolt of pure lust through my body.

He reached out, his fingers closing around my wrist, tugging me toward him. His other hand slipped behind my neck, pulling my mouth to his in a bruising kiss. There was nothing gentle about the way Nathan kissed—all demand and possession, his tongue pushing past my lips, claiming me.

I melted into him, my hands fisting in his shirt. The heat of his body burned through the thin cotton as he backed me up against a vintage Mustang that had been in the shop for weeks.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted me onto the hood. The metal was cool against my thighs as he pushed my skirt up around my waist, revealing the fact that I'd stopped wearing underwear to these encounters. His sharp intake of breath was the only sign of his surprise.

"Turn around," he whispered hoarsely, the command barely audible.

I obeyed, rolling over onto my hands and knees on the sloped surface of the hood. The position made me feel vulnerable, exposed. Behind me, I heard the clink of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. Then his hands were on my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave marks.

The head of his cock nudged at my entrance, testing. I was already wet—had been since the moment I stepped into the garage—but he still pushed in slowly, stretching me with a delicious burn that made me bite my lip to keep from moaning.

Once fully seated inside me, he paused. In the silence of the empty garage, our harsh breathing seemed impossibly loud. Then he began to move.

Each thrust was deliberate, almost methodical. None of the frantic desperation from our first encounter remained. This was something else—something more controlled but no less intense. His cock filled me completely, the thick ridge of his head dragging against my inner walls with every stroke.

I braced myself against the cool metal, pushing back to meet each thrust. The position allowed him to go deeper than before, hitting places inside me that made sparks dance behind my eyelids.

His hand slid up my spine to tangle in my hair, pulling my head back. "Look," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.

I opened my eyes to see our reflection in the windshield—distorted but unmistakable. The sight of us connected this way, his powerful body curved over mine, his cock disappearing inside me with each thrust, was obscenely erotic.

"Fuck," I breathed, the word escaping before I could catch it.

His rhythm faltered for just a moment, then resumed with renewed intensity. His free hand snaked around to find my clit, circling the sensitive bud with calloused fingers.

The dual stimulation was overwhelming. I could feel my orgasm building, tension coiling tighter in my lower belly. Nathan must have sensed it too, because he increased his pace, his hips slapping against my ass with each powerful thrust.

"Come on my cock," he growled, his fingers working faster between my legs.

My arms gave out, my cheek pressed against the hood as pleasure crashed through me. My pussy clenched around him, squeezing his shaft in rhythmic pulses as I came apart.

He didn't slow down, fucking me through my orgasm and into another, smaller one that followed immediately after. Only then did he allow himself release, driving into me one final time before I felt him pulsing inside me.

We stayed like that for several long moments, connected, panting. Eventually, he pulled out, the sudden emptiness making me whimper. I heard the snap of latex—he must have been wearing a condom, though I hadn't noticed him put it on—and then his hands were on my waist, helping me turn over.

I sat up slowly, my limbs heavy with satisfaction. Nathan stood between my legs, his face unreadable in the shadows. He handed me a clean shop rag to clean myself, and I took it with murmured thanks.

We dressed in silence. There was none of the awkwardness of that first night—we'd established this pattern now, this wordless agreement. But as I slid off the hood and smoothed down my skirt, I felt a strange hollowness beneath my satisfaction.

"Tomorrow?" he asked quietly, breaking our usual silence.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

As I walked to my car, I realized tomorrow would be Saturday—run club day. For the first time, I wondered if things would be different between us there, if something had shifted in our carefully compartmentalized arrangement.

The thought both terrified and thrilled me.