The regulars at The Rusty Mug knew Jordan for his sour disposition and the unnerving gleam in his eye whenever a new female recruit walked through the door. His reputation preceded him; skills and experience were secondary considerations, often entirely overlooked, if the candidate possessed a certain⌠visual appeal. He craved the kind of staff that filled the bar with buzzing testosterone and kept the cash flowing, and he had a very specific idea of what that looked like.
When Maxine walked in for her interview, she understood the unspoken rules. Sheâd heard the whispers, seen the way Jordanâs gaze lingered, how his hiring choices defied logic. This wasnât an interview about mixology recipes or inventory management. This was a performance, a negotiation of unspoken terms she was prepared to meet. Her chosen attire, a flimsy, low-cut shirt, was a calculated move, exposing the full, ripe curve of her globed breasts, a silent offering that Jordanâs eyes immediately devoured.
He gestured vaguely at a stool, his gaze fixed, unwavering. The questions he posed were perfunctory, almost an afterthought, his attention clearly elsewhere. Maxine, for her part, leaned forward, a subtle sway of her torso emphasizing the generous swell of her chest, a silent invitation that hummed in the air between them. Her answers were brief, punctuated by soft breaths that further agitated the thin fabric.
The interview concluded with an abruptness that signaled its true purpose. Jordan pushed back from the sticky surface of the bar. He didn't need to ask. Her posture, the way she leaned into his space, the unspoken invitation in her eyes â it was all the answer he required.
Instead of pulling her directly against the bar, he took her hand, his fingers strong and possessive. Without a word, he tugged, leading her away from the faint glow of the neon signs and deeper into the dim recesses of the empty establishment. The air grew cooler, carrying the faint scent of stale beer and desperation. Shadows clung to the walls, obscuring forgotten boxes and stacked chairs. He didn't stop until they were pressed against the cold, unyielding surface of the bar.
Her breath hitched, a soft sound in the sudden quiet. Slowly, deliberately, he reached down, his fingers finding the coarse denim of his jeans. The rasp of the zipper echoed disproportionately loud in the enclosed space, a stark declaration of intent. As the metal teeth parted, a heavy, engorged shaft sprang free, thick and throbbing, jutting aggressively from the dark fabric. It pulsed with a life of its own, reaching for her, a raw, undeniable testament to his desire. Her eyes widened, tracking the rigid length, a shiver tracing its way down her spine.
He grasped her hips then, pulling her roughly against him, the hard shaft pressing against the thin material of the panties under her skirt. She gasped, a sound swallowed by the dim hum of the barâs old refrigeration unit. He guided her, tilting her forward, until she was braced, pliant, against the cool, slick surface of the bar, her shirt pulling taut across her back. With a guttural sound, he pushed her panties to the side and drove into her, a deep, primal rhythm filling the silence of the hidden room, her body tensing then relaxing into the powerful thrusts.
