Bar bunny

She waits at the bar, legs crossed, fingers already sliding under her hem. Every slow rub pulls her mind back to his tongue and the way those hands pinned her down last time. The ache grows fast. She uncrosses, parts her knees, finds the wet spot in her panties and presses two fingers right there. Eyes half-closed, she rocks against her own touch, breath catching each time she hits the spot. Another stroke, firmer, and a quiet moan slips out. She glances at the door, still no sign of him, so she slips the fabric aside and pushes two fingers inside. Her hips roll. She moves faster, chasing the edge, until the bar stool creaks beneath her quickening rhythm and she tips her head back, lost in the heat.