I slam the half-finished glass down harder than I mean to, but hell, if they’re going to serve this swill, they ought to hear about it.
“Excuse me? This tastes nothing like what I ordered,” I say, waving the bartender over. My voice cuts sharper than I intend, but I’ve had just enough of being ignored tonight. “I’m not paying for this. Make me another.”
The guy behind the counter blinks at me, clearly out of his depth, then scurries away. A minute later, someone else appears: taller, broader shoulders, and suit jacket hanging open over a crisp shirt. He’s clearly the bar manager. He moves like a man who’s put out a hundred fires tonight already, but his eyes are fixed squarely on me.
“I hear we’ve got a problem,” he says, calm but flat, like he’s not here to argue.
“Yes,” I shoot back, lifting the glass as proof. “This isn’t what I asked for. I’m not paying for it, and I expect the drink to be redone properly.”
He nods once, no apology beyond the briefest dip of his head. “Of course. I’ll handle it myself.”
I watch him at the bar station, his hands measured and precise. He builds the drink with care, pouring, squeezing citrus, using all the motions I expected the first time. My irritation simmers, still hot but contained. Maybe this man actually knows what he’s doing.
Then he sets the glass aside and unzips his pants. He’s calm and unhurried, like it’s all part of the recipe. His hand disappears, drawing out his thick, heavy, and already stiffening cock. He dips it straight into the glass and I freeze, wide-eyed, and disbelieving, as he stirs the drink with his manhood like it’s nothing more than a bar spoon. His head makes a slow circle, the liquid lapping around him. My throat goes dry, my complaint forgotten, and my body buzzes with heat I don’t want to admit.
He pulls free, slick with alcohol, tucks himself back in, and zips up neat as ever. He places my drink on the bar top. Cold glass and condensation dripping, he slides it toward me.
“Will there be anything else?” he asks, voice smooth and professional, like he hasn’t just crossed every possible line.
My hand hovers over the glass, my mouth working, but no words come. The room feels smaller, the air thick, the drink staring back at me like a dare.