Chapter 102: Sara’s Irritation
Sara sat sprawled across from the empty seats, her jacket open, her t-shirt and skirt slightly rumpled, her black stockings gleaming under the table, her ankle boots tapping lazily. Her red-painted nails clutched a napkin, wiping ketchup from her lips as she leaned back, her plate a battlefield of burger crumbs, fries remnants, and a half-eaten bowl of pasta, not to mention the empty ice cream bowls stacked nearby. My absence—and Aeri’s—hung in the air.
*Burp.* Sara let out a loud belch, her hand flying to her mouth, a grin spreading as she patted her stomach. "Ahh... now that makes me full," she said, her voice satisfied, leaning back in the booth, her boots scuffing the floor.
She glanced at the empty seats, her brow furrowing slightly, the minutes ticking by since Aeri and I had left for the washroom stretching her patience thin. "I am gonna kill both of them today or maybe I should go and check in the washroom. What if-"
Before her mind would’ve ran in any wrong direction, she heard *Tap, tap.* The sound of sneakers echoed, and Aeri appeared, her cream sweater soft under the restaurant’s glow, her jeans smoothed back into place, her white sneakers scuffing lightly.
Her hair was tucked behind her ears, her face still faintly flushed from our heated encounter, her wristwatch catching the light as she approached, a sweaty, tense smile on her lips. "Hey, hi..." she said, her voice soft, apologetic, her hands fidgeting as she slid toward the booth. "Sorry for keeping you waitin—"
Before she could finish, Sara slammed her hands on the table with a loud *THUD*, the plates rattling, her eyes narrowing. "Where the hell were you!?" she demanded, her voice booming, cutting through the restaurant’s hum, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables.
Aeri flinched, her smile tightening, her hands joining together in a pleading gesture. "Ehehe... it took longer in the washroom... I’m sorry..." she said, her voice light but strained, sliding into the booth beside the pile of bags, her sneakers tucking under the table.
Her blush deepened, her eyes darting away, the memory of our cubicle—her moans, my hands, my dick inside her pussy from behind and then a heated bowjob with our shared climax—likely flashing through her mind, making her apology feel like a fragile cover.
Sara huffed, crossing her arms, her stockings shifting as she recrossed her legs. "Longer, huh? You and your baby boy take forever," she muttered, her tone sharp, her eyes flicking toward the restaurant entrance, searching for me. "And where’s your bab—"