Trinity 1-844-332-2639 ext 285

The stranger at the bar was my boyfriend. It was his idea. “Let’s play pretend tonight,” he said. “You be you—but act like you’ve never met me.” He told me where to meet him: a dark lounge tucked in the corner of the city, moody lighting, velvet booths. I walked in like I didn’t belong to anyone. Red lips, black heels, no bra under my silk blouse.

He was sitting at the bar, one hand around a whiskey glass, the other draped casually across his lap. He didn’t even glance at me at first. When he did, his eyes lit up with pure hunger. “You here alone?” he asked, voice low, dangerous. “For now,” I answered, sliding onto the stool beside him.

He bought me a drink. Let his hand graze my thigh as we talked about everything and nothing. My heart was racing—and I knew we were both fighting the urge to drop the act. But it made everything hotter.

Thirty minutes later, we stumbled into a hotel room like we’d just met. He pushed me against the door, yanked my blouse open, and kissed me like he didn’t know my name. He fucked me rough, like

The Stranger at the Bar Was My Boyfriend

like a stranger. No “I love you’s,” just filthy words whispered into my ear: “You like this, don’t you? Letting some stranger use you.” I came harder than I had in weeks.

When he finally collapsed beside me, both of us breathless, I turned to him with a grin. “Do you always fuck girls you meet at bars like that?”

He smirked. “Only the ones I plan to marry.”

 

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