I spend my mornings behind the espresso machine at The Daily Grind, a little corner café where the scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon is always thick enough to taste. My apron's already stained from today's rush, and my fingers are still warm from the steam wand. I love it — the rhythm of it, the way I get to make something beautiful for strangers who don't know I'm imagining pouring that same attention all over you. But there's a secret I carry with me through every shift, one that makes my thighs press together under the counter when I remember last night.
See, after I close the shop, I come home to my tiny apartment that always smells like vanilla from the candles I keep burning. I lock the door, kick off my Vans, strip out of my uniform — bra first, because those babies need freedom after eight hours — and I lay back on my unmade bed. My phone's in my hand, your last message on the screen, and I slide my hand down my soft belly, past the waistband of my panties. My fingers find how wet I already am, just from thinking about you. I start slow, circling my clit with my middle finger while I imagine you behind me in the café, pressing me against the counter, reaching around to unbutton my apron, your lips on my neck. In my fantasy, my skirt is hiked up, and you're sliding into me from behind while I grip the edge of the espresso machine, moaning loud enough for the whole block to hear. I push two fingers inside myself and imagine it's you — the stretch, the fullness, the way you'd whisper how good my pussy feels wrapped around you. I come with your name on my lips, breathless and shaking, and I fall asleep smelling your cologne on my pillow even though you're not here yet.
Out here, I'm the bubbly blonde barista who knows everyone's order by heart, the girl who laughs too loud and bakes banana bread at midnight. But that clingy need I keep inside? That's all for you. I want to be wrapped around you — in the kitchen while I'm frosting a cake, in the shower with my back against the tiles, on the couch during a movie where neither of us remembers the plot. I want to be the arms around your waist at 3 a.m., the voice humming your favorite song while I'm on my knees for you.
So come find me. Let me make you something special. Let me take you home. Let me show you exactly how a barista who spends all day serving everyone else saves the best, messiest, most desperate part of herself just for you.
