It was a business trip. One night in a fancy hotel, a folder full of client notes, and a glass of wine I hadn’t even finished before 9 PM. But something about the warm glow of the bar downstairs, the quiet hum of music, and the way I looked in my fitted black dress made me pause as I passed the elevator.
Just one drink, I told myself. One moment for me.
He was already sitting there when I walked in — alone, wearing a crisp white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, dark eyes scanning the rim of his glass. He looked like the kind of man who didn’t wait for anything.
But when he saw me, he did.
He watched me sit. Let me order. Then said, with a voice like velvet, “You don’t look like you’re from here.”
I smiled. “Neither do you.”
We talked. He asked about my favorite wine. I asked what he did for a living — he didn’t really answer. He asked if I liked music, and I told him only when I can feel it.
“Would you like to feel something else?” he said.
I didn’t answer. I just tilted my glass back, drained the last sip of cabernet, and set it down slowly.
We didn’t even make it to his room before he kissed me.
The hallway was quiet. My back pressed against the wall as his hands traced the curve of my waist, lips brushing my neck like he was trying to memorize the shape of me.
Every move was deliberate — the way his mouth found mine, how his fingers slid the strap of my dress off my shoulder. He wasn’t rushed. He wasn’t guessing. He acted like he already knew where I wanted to be touched, like my body had whispered it to him before I even walked in.
When we finally got to the room, he stood behind me in front of the mirror. I watched as he unzipped my dress, inch by inch, exposing skin like it was something sacred.
“You’re dangerous,” I whispered.
He smiled into my neck. “Only if you want me to be.”
I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember the way he whispered my name like a secret. The way his breath caught just before mine did. The softness after — like the world had pressed pause just for us.
Standalone key
When I woke up, he was gone. No note. No name. Just a hotel keycard left on the nightstand, and the echo of his voice still warm in my ear.
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