"Your hands are shaking," the woman murmured, plucking the cigarette from between Ivy's fingers. Her touch lingered just a second too long, thumb brushing over Ivy's knuckle before she leaned back into the cracked leather booth. "First time?"
The bar smelled like stale beer and something sharper—bleach, maybe, or the ghost of last night's fight. Ivy watched the woman's lips, glossy and parted around her own cigarette, as she exhaled a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling fan. It spiraled lazily in the yellow light.
"I don't usually come to places like this," Ivy lied, fingers twitching toward the pack of menthols in her pocket. The truth was, she always ended up in dives like this one, the kind where the vinyl stuck to your thighs in summer and the ice tasted like freezer burn. But she'd never met anyone who looked at her the way this woman did—like she was already halfway undressed.
The woman laughed, a low, throaty sound that made the hairs on Ivy's arms stand up. "Sure you don't." She reached across the table, tracing a chipped fingernail along Ivy's wrist where the pulse jumped. "But you're here now." The jukebox in the corner hiccuped to life, some mournful country song about cheating hearts, and Ivy realized two things at once: the woman's boots were scuffed at the toes, and she hadn't blinked in seventeen seconds.
A drop of condensation slid down Ivy's glass, pooling on the sticky wood. She wanted to lick it. Wanted to lean forward and taste the salt on the woman's collarbone instead. "What's your name?" Ivy asked, but the woman just smiled and shook her head, like names were for people who planned on saying goodbye.
The song changed—something heavier now, drums like a heartbeat—and suddenly the woman was standing, pulling Ivy up by the belt loops. Close enough that Ivy could smell the whiskey on her breath, the cherry balm on her lips. No one looked twice as the woman backed her into the narrow hallway by the restrooms, one hand already under Ivy's shirt, fingers skating over ribs. The tile was cold against Ivy's shoulders when she hit the wall.
"Tell me to stop," the woman whispered, teeth grazing Ivy's earlobe, but her other hand was already undoing the button of Ivy's jeans, slipping past the waistband. Ivy gasped, arching into the touch—rough, impatient—her own nails digging into the woman's shoulders. Someone laughed loudly in the bar beyond, glass shattering, but all Ivy could focus on was the wet heat between her thighs, the way the woman's thumb circled around and round just *there*, relentless.
The flickering neon sign outside the bathroom door cast shifting red shadows across the woman's face—her pupils blown wide, lips swollen from biting. She didn't ask again. Just hooked two fingers inside Ivy, pressing deep, and Ivy muffled a cry against her neck, tasting salt and cheap perfume. The tile was freezing against her bare back now, but she couldn't stop grinding down onto those fingers, couldn't stop the desperate little noises clawing up her throat every time the woman crooked them *just so*.
Someone rattled the restroom door handle, cursing, but the woman merely smirked and twisted her wrist, making Ivy's knees buckle. "Quiet," she breathed into Ivy's mouth, swallowing her whimpers with a kiss that tasted like ashes and weakness and desire. Ivy's jeans were pooled around one ankle, her shirt rucked up under her breasts, and she didn't give a damn who saw—only that this woman didn't stop, didn't slow down, didn't let her think for one second about the consequences.