Bottomless brunch at Revolution was civilized drinking disguised as a social activity. Two hours of unlimited prosecco, overpriced eggs, and the steady descent into day-drunk chaos.
I was there for a mate's birthday, already three glasses in, when she caught my eye from across the table.
Thick thighs stuffed into high-waisted jeans, crop top showing a soft belly, brown hair in beach waves, and a smile that said she knew exactly what effect she was having.
"I'm Gemma," she mouthed, raising her glass.
"Jack," I mouthed back.
"Fit," she mouthed, grinning.
"Thanks?"
She laughed—I could see it more than hear it over the crowd—and turned back to her friends.
An hour later, we were both significantly drunker and standing at the bar at the same time. Coincidentally. Completely coincidentally.
"Funny seeing you here," she said.
"Almost like we're at the same brunch."
"Crazy." She leaned against the bar, giving me an excellent view down her top. "Your mates are boring."
"Says the woman who's been staring at me for an hour."
"You noticed that, did you?"
"Hard to miss."
She grinned, stepped closer. "Good. Means you're paying attention."
"What should I be paying attention to?"
"The fact that I'm about to go to the toilets. And I'm very bad at locks."
She walked away, hips swaying. I counted to thirty, then followed.
The toilets were single-occupancy, thank fuck. Gemma was waiting inside, door cracked open.
"Took your time," she said as I slipped in.
"Didn't want to look desperate."
"You are desperate." She locked the door, pushed me against it. "So am I. Been thinking about this since you walked in."
She kissed me—prosecco-sweet, all tongue and urgency. Her hands were everywhere, pulling at my shirt, working at my belt.
"Fuck, you're fit," she breathed. "Proper fit."
"So are you."
"I know." She grinned, dropped to her knees. "Now shut up and let me show my appreciation."
Her mouth was heaven—warm and wet and enthusiastic. She sucked like she had something to prove, looking up at me with those brown eyes while her hands worked what her mouth couldn't reach.
"Fuck—Gemma—"
"Not yet." She stood, wiggled out of her jeans—a production that took longer than it should have given how tight they were. Her knickers were bright pink, already damp. "Want you to earn it first."
She hopped up on the sink, spread her legs. "Go on then."
I dropped to my knees, pulled her knickers aside, buried my face between her thick thighs. She tasted like desire and desperation.
"Oh fuck—yes—right there—"
I worked her with my tongue, fingers, everything I had. She was loud—probably too loud for a public toilet—but I didn't care.
"Gonna cum—already—fuck—"
She came on my tongue, thighs clamping around my head, her whole body shaking. I didn't stop until she pushed me away.
"Inside me," she gasped. "Now."
I stood, lined myself up, pushed in. We both groaned.
"Fuck, that's good—move—"
The sink creaked beneath her as I fucked her, her legs wrapped around my waist, her nails in my shoulders. We were both close—too turned on, too desperate.
"Harder—come on—make me cum again—"
I gave her everything, pounding into her. She came with a scream, biting my neck to muffle it. I followed seconds later, pulling out to finish on her stomach.
We cleaned up, got dressed, unlocked the door to find a queue of very judgmental women.
"Worth the wait," Gemma said to them, dragging me back to the bar.
"So," she said, handing me a fresh glass of prosecco. "Same time next Sunday?"
"Bottomless brunch?"
"Properly bottomless." She winked. "I'll bring better underwear."
I went back to my mates with a stupid grin and a new Sunday tradition.
Revolution really is revolutionary.