Rooftop Cinema: Silver Fox Bartender Claims His 19-Year-Old Patron

I’m still not sure how it started, only that I couldn’t stop going back.

My name is Mia. Nineteen, freshly out of my first year of college, and completely obsessed with a man old enough to be my father. Victor. Fifty-two. Silver fox in every sense of the word—thick salt-and-pepper hair, neatly trimmed beard, deep lines at the corners of his storm-grey eyes that only made him more devastating. He tended bar at Lumina, the exclusive rooftop cinema bar perched on top of a converted warehouse downtown. Every Thursday and Friday night all summer I’d climb those stairs in shorter and shorter skirts, heart hammering, knowing exactly what I was doing.

The first time I noticed the way he looked at me, I was wearing a tiny black pleated skirt that barely covered the curve of my ass when I leaned forward. I ordered a virgin mojito just to have an excuse to stay at the bar between films. Victor never rushed me. He’d slide the drink across the polished wood, fingers brushing mine on purpose, and hold my gaze a second too long.

“You’re here again, little mia,” he’d murmur, voice low and rough like aged whiskey. “Careful. Some of us aren’t as strong as we look.”

I’d blush, thighs pressing together under the bar, and answer with something flirty and breathless. The tension between us grew thicker every visit. I started wearing the white sundress with the tiny buttons down the front and no bra. Then the red one that hugged my hips and stopped high on my thighs. I’d linger after the last credits rolled, pretending to watch the city lights while the rest of the well-dressed crowd drifted toward the elevators. Victor would close out his register slowly, watching me the entire time.

Tonight the final film was an old noir classic. The rooftop was packed until the very end. When the last couple finally left, the summer night felt suddenly, dangerously quiet. Only the low hum of the city far below and the soft clink of Victor locking the cash drawer remained. I was sitting on a velvet barstool, legs crossed, the hem of my black silk slip dress riding dangerously high. My pulse thundered in my ears.

He came around the bar, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to reveal thick, veined forearms. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, showing a tempting triangle of silver chest hair. When he stopped in front of me, the heat rolling off his big body made my nipples tighten against the thin fabric.

“Mia.” His voice was gravel and smoke. “You keep coming back here dressed like sin. You know what you’re doing to me?”

I looked up at him through my lashes, pulse racing. “I was hoping you’d finally tell me.”