A room comes with a cost - Part 3 - Sexgeschichten

A room comes with a cost - Part 3

... school? Bet those legs turned heads."

His boot nudged my sneaker under the table... accidental? Bullshit... heel hooking my ankle, tugging light like a promise.

"Busy shift," I clipped, pouring black from the pot, steam curling up to fog my view of his leer. Steam kissed my exposed skin, the blouse clinging damp to my sternum, nipples shadowing darker.

"Order up?"

Hank's hand shot out... not grabbing, but close: Fingers brushing my wrist as he handed back the menu, rough calluses scraping like sandpaper.

"Pancakes for me. And a side of smile, sweetheart. Loosen up... buy ya a beer on break. Dawn's early, but we start strong."

The others murmured agreement, Beau's boot tugging firmer, pulling my foot half under the booth. Close enough his knee bumped my calf... warm, insistent, denim whispering against my bare skin.

I yanked free, notepad clutched like armor, the pencil digging into my palm.

"No booze on shift. Pancakes coming."

Turned sharp, skirt swishing dangerous, a faint updraft kissing my panty-covered ass. Their laughs chased me to the kitchen... low, rumbling, like thunder promising rain. Vic met me at the pass, eyes on the blush staining my chest above the blouse's gap.

"Iced 'em again? Eight bucks repeat. Sit next time... let 'em warm ya up. Or no bra back."

His thumb tapped the apron pocket, the lace bulge shifting like a threat.

The shift ground on: Plates ferried, refills poured, truckers at the counter slipping fives with ...

... winks and "Keep the change, tits." Ten bucks by eight PM... better, but scraps. The Patrol waved me back twice... more coffee, then pie... each time their booth a web tightening. By nine, the diner's thinned, neon buzzing lonely outside, and Hank's voice cut through:

"Break time, sunshine? Booth's open. Soda on us... or somethin' stronger. Loosen that blouse a button more, earn a real tip."

Vic nodded from afar... subtle jerk of his chin, eyes hard. *Earn it.* My feet ached in the sneakers, thighs chafing from the skirt's constant ride-up, panties damp from sweat and that low simmer Anna had named: Heat. I slid into the booth's end... perched, not settled... bare legs folding tight under the table, skirt hiking to mid-thigh.

"Soda. Quick break."

Beau grinned, sliding a foaming mug my way... amber liquid, not cola.

"Beer's quicker. On the house... Vic's nod."

The foam sloshed, heady and bitter as I sipped... rebellion whispering bolt, but thirst won, the cool fizz cutting the grease in my throat. One sip. Two. Their stories tumbled: Road hauls, bad wives, "girls like you" in every diner from here to Reno. Hank's hand landed on the seat beside my hip... not touching, but close, knuckles brushing the pleats.

"Legs for days, doll. Bet they wrap nice."

The beer hit fast... empty mug swapped for a second, Beau's pour generous, foam spilling sticky on the wood.

"Loosen up," he echoed Vic, knee pressing my thigh now... warm denim against bare skin, inching ...