Wants What She Can't Have

The dim bar light flickers over Lola, Jill Kassidy's sharp features etched with boredom as she swipes a rag across the scarred counter. A handful of patrons huddle in shadows, nursing drinks like forgotten secrets. She scans them, detached, mechanical. Tim, her boss—Charles Dera's easy grin flashes—strides by, tossing a casual 'Hey, Lola' her way. They trade small talk, polite as a razor. She's cool, distant, brushing him off like dust. Tim vanishes into the back. Lola keeps at it, polishing glass that doesn't need it. Then the door swings open. A woman saunters in—Ryan Keely's curves cutting through the haze—straight to the bar. Lola musters a smile, tight and professional. 'I'm Marcie,' the woman says, voice smooth as silk. 'Tim's wife.' Lola's eyes widen a fraction. Wife? News to her. Right on cue, Tim bursts out from the back, beaming like a fool in love. He pulls Marcie close, their kiss deep, hands roaming with that married hunger. Lola watches, frozen. Seconds ago, Tim was nothing—a pest. Now? Her lips curl into a sly smile. Tongue darts out, wetting them slow. Eyes lock on him, ravenous. Not jealousy twisting her gut. No. Something wilder, a spark of chaos. She craves the hunt, the forbidden snag. CUT TO TITLE Marcie and Tim banter easy, heading out to scout a house—domestic dreams in the air. Marcie slips away to the bathroom, leaving Tim alone with Lola. She pounces now, all fire and intent, leaning in close, voice a low purr. He shifts to bolt, muttering about closing tasks. Lola blocks him smooth. 'Register's jammed,' she lies, breath hot on his neck. 'Been stuck all damn day. Help?' Tim rounds the bar, fiddling with the machine. Lola hovers, body brushing his deliberate, refusing space. No games, no warmup—she lunges, hands yanking his belt free, dropping to her knees. Tim stiffens, protests dying as her mouth engulfs his cock, sucking hard, relentless. He bites back groans, pleasure ripping through him like a bad habit he can't kick. Eyes dart to the patrons, then the bathroom door—wife on the prowl. Panic hits when Marcie rounds the corner. Tim's eyes bulge, wild. He shoves at Lola's head, desperate. She doesn't budge, lips sealed tight around his throbbing shaft, tongue working wicked. He hunches over the counter, playing it casual. Lola stays low, hidden in the gloom, sucking deeper as Marcie strolls up, chatting oblivious. Tim's crossroads. Clock's ticking. But hell, has the bastard already crossed the line?