ROOM 1103
Sara
“Four Seasons concierge, this is Sara speaking.”
“Sara, this is the gentleman from room 1103.”
“Oh, yes. How can I help you, sir?”
“I’d like your panties in a little wad in my pocket and you thrashing in my bed.”
Blush. “Right away, sir.”
“Sara, did you manage to get those tickets for Hamilton?”
“Yes, I sent them over,” I tell my coworker Viktor as I lower my head to keep him from seeing how flushed I got after the phone call. Keeping my loose hair falling in a curtain over the sides of my face, I log out of my computer and grab my cell phone. “I need to take something to one of our guests and am stopping at the ladies’. Be right back,” I tell him.
I step out from behind the concierge desk in the lobby, already starting to perspire from what I’m about to do. I head to the restrooms and hurry into a stall, lock myself in, and take off my panties. I wad them up in a tiny ball.
“Damn!” I have no pockets to stash them in.
I grit my teeth and slide them back on, then I head outside and wait until the elevator bank is empty so that I can ride upstairs alone.
At the last minute, a guest joins me in the elevator. “Good evening,” she says.
“Good evening, ma’am,” I say.
Sara, what are you doing?!
I can’t believe I’m riding the elevator up to his room. Every floor my heart pounds harder and harder. And when the woman steps out, I can barely suppress my excitement. My whole body trembles with adrenaline and desire as the elevator doors close, and I slip my hands beneath my skirt and take off my panties again. I wad them in my palm and stare anxiously as the floor numbers keep creeping upward.
If I’m honest with myself, I will admit that my body hasn’t felt normal since I met him. It hasn’t felt at peace. Oh no, it’s felt sort of shivery, a little too warm, and a little too amped up with female sex hormones.
I arrive at his floor, step out, and walk toward room 1103. I knock twice and then wait, glancing around in paranoia of getting caught.
The door opens—and tall, dark, and decadent stands on the other side—and I’m absolutely breathless.
The kind of breathless you get when you’re at the top of a rollercoaster about to dive down—when no matter how much you want to breathe, you can’t. Not really. Only to let out a scream—if you can find your voice at all. It’s an odd, uncomfortable feeling, but there’s something about this guy that has been pushing all my buttons.
The button that says: I haven’t had sex in a while.
The button that says: I like unavailable men even though I don’t want to.
The button that says: I think men in suits are hot.
The button that says: When I meet a guy that makes me feel fireworks, I’m not going to be a pussy about it and run away. No! I’m going to light up a match and see how high the flames can go.
And so here I am, staring at a hotel guest, unaware of his name—not that it’s important. The room is booked under a Californian corporation. They regularly send executives here, but this is the first time that I’ve seen this particular executive.
The first time I’m lighting that “match.”
For some reason, it’s easy. It’s so easy that I can’t believe how quickly I blew off work when he called and asked for me, and how fucking eager I am to drop my panties in his pocket.
I smile up at him as I brush past his shoulder and let myself into his room. He grabs my wrist to halt me, tugging me around to face him. The surprised breath that surfaces gets caught in my throat. He looks down at me, slowly shutting the door with his other hand.
The guy looks gorgeous in a suit. He looks just as gorgeous without the suit jacket, in only slacks and a white shirt. So what? A lot of men look great in suits.
But this one makes my heart pound so hard that I can’t stop feeling it in my rib cage.
This guy is supernova. And his whole look screams workaholic. Now Hot Workaholic’s eyes land on the pulse at my throat, and he raises his arm and curls his hand around my neck, stroking my pulse point with his thumb.
“Are you turned on already, Sara?” he asks.
His face is a little arrogant, his expression reserved, revealing nothing. His shoulders are wide and proud, the kind of shoulders that can hoist you up all day. His lashes are prettier than a girl’s. Not that I’m jealous or anything.
There’s pure inky blackness in his eyes.
As black as his hair.
His features could not be more symmetrical or captivating.
The guy looks so comfortable in his skin, you’d have to wonder if he knows he’s this attractive. He’d have to be blind not to know. But does it even matter to him at all that he is?
He looks like a Suit, the hottest Suit you’ve ever seen, and I wonder if he does anything but work.
His mouth is curled as if he’s on the edge of laughter, and he smiles a little more, flashing me straight, even teeth.
As I press closer, he grabs me and boosts me up to the console by the foyer of the suite, and I realize he can definitely get more stuff done than work.
He ducks his sooty head and his lips barely—barely—caress mine. A thousand tingles rush down my body. My lips open—waiting. Eager. He inhales, growls, and then opens his hot, hard, made-for-sex mouth and presses it fully to mine. Our mouths dissolve in a crazy-as-hell kiss, and his tongue flashes out to set mine on fire with a lick. With one pull of his strong arms, I’m squished against the flat plane of his body and against the wonderful, toe-curling evidence of how freaking hot and stiff this man is for me already.
“Do me hard,” I whisper, unable to stop kissing him, sliding my fingers into his hair.
“I’m doing you hard.” He shoots me a look so full of sexual innuendo that I expect to turn to cinders any minute. “And repeatedly.”
The man takes my lips again and gives my tongue the best massage it’s ever gotten. A massage that promises my whole body a happy ending.
I stroke my fingers along the front of his slacks, and I cannot even measure how big he is, because he’s huge, and something about him being this well endowed, and about him being ready to give it to me, makes me wetter and wetter. I stroke up and down and feel myself pant, my whole mind on fire with thoughts of him—how good he feels, smells, kisses, because this is so lit.
He is LIT.
Sara
The day before…
I’m back in New York after a delay in Houston and a storm above Manhattan that kept us circling for an extra half hour. I’m beat and moody, but glad to be home, as I head out the terminal with my suitcase rolling beside me.
I’m ready to fill up the tub and forget this weekend entirely, including the fact that my family has broken apart in what feels like a blink.
I never saw it coming.
I thought my parents would age together, right to the end. I thought they were happy. I thought they were one of the precious few couples in the world still in love with each other.
But it turns out that my dad no longer loves my mom. I don’t know who’s more devastated, my mom or me.
Distracted by the thoughts, I realize too late that I’ve walked down the taxi line—a line that indicates at least an hour wait—to the front. “Line’s back there,” a moody older man grits out through his teeth.
Startled, my eyes scan to the back of the line and my heart sinks. I pull out my phone and open the Uber app. Last time I tried grabbing an Uber at the airport, it was hell. The guy couldn’t find me and I couldn’t find him, and I still got charged. Nobody likes to get charged for a service they never enjoyed, so I hesitate.
Sara
“Four Seasons concierge, this is Sara speaking.”
“Sara, this is the gentleman from room 1103.”
“Oh, yes. How can I help you, sir?”
“I’d like your panties in a little wad in my pocket and you thrashing in my bed.”
Blush. “Right away, sir.”
“Sara, did you manage to get those tickets for Hamilton?”
“Yes, I sent them over,” I tell my coworker Viktor as I lower my head to keep him from seeing how flushed I got after the phone call. Keeping my loose hair falling in a curtain over the sides of my face, I log out of my computer and grab my cell phone. “I need to take something to one of our guests and am stopping at the ladies’. Be right back,” I tell him.
I step out from behind the concierge desk in the lobby, already starting to perspire from what I’m about to do. I head to the restrooms and hurry into a stall, lock myself in, and take off my panties. I wad them up in a tiny ball.
“Damn!” I have no pockets to stash them in.
I grit my teeth and slide them back on, then I head outside and wait until the elevator bank is empty so that I can ride upstairs alone.
At the last minute, a guest joins me in the elevator. “Good evening,” she says.
“Good evening, ma’am,” I say.
Sara, what are you doing?!
I can’t believe I’m riding the elevator up to his room. Every floor my heart pounds harder and harder. And when the woman steps out, I can barely suppress my excitement. My whole body trembles with adrenaline and desire as the elevator doors close, and I slip my hands beneath my skirt and take off my panties again. I wad them in my palm and stare anxiously as the floor numbers keep creeping upward.
If I’m honest with myself, I will admit that my body hasn’t felt normal since I met him. It hasn’t felt at peace. Oh no, it’s felt sort of shivery, a little too warm, and a little too amped up with female sex hormones.
I arrive at his floor, step out, and walk toward room 1103. I knock twice and then wait, glancing around in paranoia of getting caught.
The door opens—and tall, dark, and decadent stands on the other side—and I’m absolutely breathless.
The kind of breathless you get when you’re at the top of a rollercoaster about to dive down—when no matter how much you want to breathe, you can’t. Not really. Only to let out a scream—if you can find your voice at all. It’s an odd, uncomfortable feeling, but there’s something about this guy that has been pushing all my buttons.
The button that says: I haven’t had sex in a while.
The button that says: I like unavailable men even though I don’t want to.
The button that says: I think men in suits are hot.
The button that says: When I meet a guy that makes me feel fireworks, I’m not going to be a pussy about it and run away. No! I’m going to light up a match and see how high the flames can go.
And so here I am, staring at a hotel guest, unaware of his name—not that it’s important. The room is booked under a Californian corporation. They regularly send executives here, but this is the first time that I’ve seen this particular executive.
The first time I’m lighting that “match.”
For some reason, it’s easy. It’s so easy that I can’t believe how quickly I blew off work when he called and asked for me, and how fucking eager I am to drop my panties in his pocket.
I smile up at him as I brush past his shoulder and let myself into his room. He grabs my wrist to halt me, tugging me around to face him. The surprised breath that surfaces gets caught in my throat. He looks down at me, slowly shutting the door with his other hand.
The guy looks gorgeous in a suit. He looks just as gorgeous without the suit jacket, in only slacks and a white shirt. So what? A lot of men look great in suits.
But this one makes my heart pound so hard that I can’t stop feeling it in my rib cage.
This guy is supernova. And his whole look screams workaholic. Now Hot Workaholic’s eyes land on the pulse at my throat, and he raises his arm and curls his hand around my neck, stroking my pulse point with his thumb.
“Are you turned on already, Sara?” he asks.
His face is a little arrogant, his expression reserved, revealing nothing. His shoulders are wide and proud, the kind of shoulders that can hoist you up all day. His lashes are prettier than a girl’s. Not that I’m jealous or anything.
There’s pure inky blackness in his eyes.
As black as his hair.
His features could not be more symmetrical or captivating.
The guy looks so comfortable in his skin, you’d have to wonder if he knows he’s this attractive. He’d have to be blind not to know. But does it even matter to him at all that he is?
He looks like a Suit, the hottest Suit you’ve ever seen, and I wonder if he does anything but work.
His mouth is curled as if he’s on the edge of laughter, and he smiles a little more, flashing me straight, even teeth.
As I press closer, he grabs me and boosts me up to the console by the foyer of the suite, and I realize he can definitely get more stuff done than work.
He ducks his sooty head and his lips barely—barely—caress mine. A thousand tingles rush down my body. My lips open—waiting. Eager. He inhales, growls, and then opens his hot, hard, made-for-sex mouth and presses it fully to mine. Our mouths dissolve in a crazy-as-hell kiss, and his tongue flashes out to set mine on fire with a lick. With one pull of his strong arms, I’m squished against the flat plane of his body and against the wonderful, toe-curling evidence of how freaking hot and stiff this man is for me already.
“Do me hard,” I whisper, unable to stop kissing him, sliding my fingers into his hair.
“I’m doing you hard.” He shoots me a look so full of sexual innuendo that I expect to turn to cinders any minute. “And repeatedly.”
The man takes my lips again and gives my tongue the best massage it’s ever gotten. A massage that promises my whole body a happy ending.
I stroke my fingers along the front of his slacks, and I cannot even measure how big he is, because he’s huge, and something about him being this well endowed, and about him being ready to give it to me, makes me wetter and wetter. I stroke up and down and feel myself pant, my whole mind on fire with thoughts of him—how good he feels, smells, kisses, because this is so lit.
He is LIT.
Sara
The day before…
I’m back in New York after a delay in Houston and a storm above Manhattan that kept us circling for an extra half hour. I’m beat and moody, but glad to be home, as I head out the terminal with my suitcase rolling beside me.
I’m ready to fill up the tub and forget this weekend entirely, including the fact that my family has broken apart in what feels like a blink.
I never saw it coming.
I thought my parents would age together, right to the end. I thought they were happy. I thought they were one of the precious few couples in the world still in love with each other.
But it turns out that my dad no longer loves my mom. I don’t know who’s more devastated, my mom or me.
Distracted by the thoughts, I realize too late that I’ve walked down the taxi line—a line that indicates at least an hour wait—to the front. “Line’s back there,” a moody older man grits out through his teeth.
Startled, my eyes scan to the back of the line and my heart sinks. I pull out my phone and open the Uber app. Last time I tried grabbing an Uber at the airport, it was hell. The guy couldn’t find me and I couldn’t find him, and I still got charged. Nobody likes to get charged for a service they never enjoyed, so I hesitate.
