Well, apart from a few wine coolers in my twenties, I've never been a drinker. I know, a writer who doesn't imbibe—shocking! There's no sad, dark story there, I just never liked it and all it did was make me sleepy, which isn't really conducive to writing. I'd much rather be alert, for a lot of things, hence my love of coffee and this story being set in a coffeeshop. But the enticing male hands do come into play.
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If You Dare
By Ria Restrepo
Copyright ©2019. All rights reserved.
Before I saw him, I was struggling. Not blocked exactly, but stuck. I had plenty of ideas, but forming sentences was like pulling teeth. I'd type something, hate it, then delete it. This went on until I was disgusted with myself.
Hoping a change of scenery would help, I packed up my laptop and went to the local coffeeshop. Ensconced in a quiet corner with a mocha latte, I wasn't getting much done, my gaze often drifting from the blinking cursor on the blank screen to people-watch.
Then he walked in and I couldn't look away. In worn jeans and T-shirt, he carried himself casually, golden-brown hair long enough to carelessly fall into his eyes. He was attractive to be sure, but the battered leather journal he held was even more intriguing.
As he placed his order, his warm voice washed over me, creating delightful shivers down my spine. I watched surreptitiously, not wanting to seem like some deranged stalker chick. He found a seat across the café near a window. After staring outside for a moment, he opened his journal and began scrawling on a page.
My curiosity went into overdrive. What was he writing? Stories about his wayward youth? Poems about a long-lost love? Songs about his nomadic travels? Or maybe he was detailing his erotic exploits with the woman he fucked the night before. The last thought made me smile.
Like magic, the words started flowing. I got so lost in the decadent tale I wove the time flew. When I finally looked up, he'd disappeared. For a moment, I panicked, but then felt sure I'd see him again.
The next day, I returned and he was there, bent over his journal, busily scribbling away, his other hand lightly wrapped around his coffee cup. I imagined those long fingers on me and in me, making me moan sweet sounds just for him. I could almost feel them gripping my neck, not squeezing, just holding me there, letting me know he was in control. Pressing my thighs together, I felt the juices flooding my cunt.
And so it continued, day after day, for months. I didn't think he noticed me, but my mysterious stranger aroused more than my writing. It amused me wondering what he'd think about all the dirty stories he inspired. He was my lascivious boss, my forbidden crush, my voyeuristic neighbor—all variations on a theme, but always him.
One day, a ripping sound made me look up from my computer. We made eye contact for the first time and his lips spread into a wicked smile. As he walked towards me, my heart pounded in my chest. He placed a torn page from his journal on my table, then turned and left.
When I could finally tear my gaze away from his retreating figure, I read his note. Below a nearby address, he'd written:
Because I need to know the secrets behind that Mona Lisa smile. Meet me there…if you dare.