Public Sex With A Stranger

I’m not usually one to linger over coffee, but something about the afternoon light spilling through the café window made me want to stay. I stirred my latte slowly, lost in thought—until he walked in. Tall, dark-haired, with eyes that locked onto mine the second the door chimed. A spark. A silent acknowledgment, like we both knew something was about to happen. He didn’t come over. Didn’t introduce himself. Just stood near the counter, ordering calmly, but his gaze never left mine—intense, smoldering. My pulse kicked.

He left first. I followed a few minutes later, telling myself I was just going for a walk. But when I turned the corner, there he was—waiting in the quiet alley beside the café, half in shadow. “Couldn’t just let you walk away,” he said, voice low. Before I could respond, he stepped closer, one hand gently cupping my jaw. I should’ve hesitated. But I didn’t. I wanted this—him—with a sudden, breathless hunger.

I melted when he looked at me, I knew I needed more.

His lips met mine, hot and sure. I pressed into him, fingers tangling in his hair as he backed me gently against the brick wall. The city hummed around us, distant and irrelevant. All I felt was the heat of his body, the rough texture of the wall behind me, the way his hands slid down my waist, pulling me closer. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. There was a fever in his touch, and I matched it—the way I arched into him, the soft moan when his hand slipped under my blouse.

I wrapped a leg around his hip, and he lifted me slightly, pressing into me in rhythm with my gasps. The air was cool, but we burned—mouths crashing, breaths mingling, urgency building with every second. It was quick, fierce, and utterly electric. When it was over, we stayed close, foreheads touching, catching our breath. No names. No promises.