Coffee

The coffee shop's bell jingled with the hollow cheer of a place that hadn't seen customers in hours. John hesitated in the doorway, his fingers tightening around the strap of his messenger bag—he’d needed someone to sit and clear his mind, the campus coffee shop a seemingly ideal spot. Across the room, Emma Maddison's head snapped up from her textbook, her ponytail swaying as she flashed him a smile.

"Principal Lee!" Alice's voice trilled from behind the espresso machine, her dyed-blonde hair catching the afternoon sun like a warning beacon. She leaned forward deliberately, the neckline of her barista apron gaping to reveal the swell of her breasts against a tank top two sizes too small. "You're our first customer since lunch."

Emma slid a textbook aside—*Advanced Calculus*, upside down—and rested her elbows on the counter. "We were starting to think nobody loved us," she sighed, her blue eyes glinting with mischief. The movement hiked her short skirt up another inch, revealing the lace edge of thigh-high stockings.

John's throat clicked as he swallowed. "Just coffee please," he rasped, gripping the counter's edge like a lifeline. "Black."

Alice's lips curled into a pout as she turned to the machine. "So boring," she murmured, her fingers brushing his when she slid the cup across the counter. The brief contact with her hand sent a jolt up his arm—her skin impossibly warm, her thumb lingering just a heartbeat too long.

John set his coffee down with deliberate precision, angling his laptop screen away from the counter as he tried to focus on the quarterly budget report. The chair groaned under his weight—or maybe it was his own internal protest as Alice's stocking-clad thighs flashed in his peripheral vision again. He clenched his jaw, fingers hovering over the keyboard. *Professional. Composed.*

A spray bottle hissed somewhere to his left. John didn't look up—couldn't look up—as Emma dragged a cloth across the table next to his in slow, deliberate arcs. When she bent forward to wipe the table's edge, her blouse gaped open just enough to reveal the lace trim of a black bra.

The spreadsheet blurred before him. John blinked hard, but the numbers kept swimming—rearranging themselves into the memory of Emma's bare skin. He stabbed at the keyboard with more **** than necessary, his coffee cooling untouched beside the laptop.

A soft thump made him glance up. Alice knelt near the display case, her skirt riding dangerously high as she wiped the glass with exaggerated care. The lace tops of her stockings peeked above her knees—black against pale skin—and John's fingers froze mid-type when she arched her back, pressing her chest against the chilled surface.

Emma's soft giggle drew his attention to the opposite wall. She stretched to dust a high shelf, her tank top riding up to expose a sliver of toned stomach. The movement lifted her breasts against the thin fabric, her nipples visibly pebbling in the air-conditioned chill. John's throat went dry when she caught him staring—her tongue darting out to wet her lips before she turned away with deliberate slowness.