Las bragas en su bolsillo

The hotel bar smelled of stale beer and lemons, and I’d been nursing the same whiskey for an hour when I saw her again. She was wiping down a table near the window, her white shirt clinging to her back with sweat. Her name was Lena, and she’d been my waitress every night this week. I’d learned her smile, the way she tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear, the way her hip brushed the table when she leaned over.

She caught me staring and didn’t look away.

“You’re still here,” she said, sliding into the booth across from me. Her voice was low, almost a whisper. “Business trip must be boring.”

“It was,” I said. “Until you showed up.”

She laughed, but her eyes didn’t. They held mine, dark and steady. Her fingers played with the edge of her apron. “You’re a regular now. Three nights in a row.”

“I like the service.”

“That’s a line if I ever heard one.”

“Is it working?”

She bit her lip. Then she reached under the table, and I felt her hand on my thigh. Not shy. Direct. Her fingers walked up my leg, found the outline of my cock through my trousers, and squeezed. I inhaled sharply.

“Your room or mine?” she asked.

Mine was closer. She didn’t even let me get the door closed before she pushed me against it, her mouth on mine, hot and hungry. Her hands were already working my belt, and I was already pulling her shirt over her head. No bra. Her tits spilled out, heavy and full, and I bent to take one in my mouth, tasting salt and soap.

She moaned, arching into me. “Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this all week.”

“Yo también.”

She dropped to her knees and unzipped my pants. My cock sprang free, hard and aching, and she didn’t hesitate. She took me in her mouth, deep, her tongue flat against the underside, and I groaned, my fingers tangled in her hair. She worked me slow, then faster, her eyes flicking up to meet mine, and I knew I’d lose it if she kept going.

“Stop,” I breathed. “I want to be inside you.”

She stood, and I saw her smile. She hooked her thumbs into her panties—black, lace, soaked through—and slid them down, then tucked them into the pocket of her apron. “A souvenir,” she said.

I didn’t wait. I spun her around, bent her over the edge of the bed, and pushed her skirt up. Her ass was pale and round, and I spread her cheeks, watching her pussy glisten. “God, you’re wet.”

“For you.” She pushed back against me. “Come on.”

I drove into her in one stroke. She cried out, a sharp, broken sound, and I gripped her hips and started to fuck her hard. The bed creaked. Her hands fisted in the sheets. The sounds she made—little gasps, half-words, my name—pushed me faster.

“Yes,” she panted. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

I reached around and found her clit, slick and swollen, and she shuddered. Her inner walls clenched around me, hot and tight. I slammed into her, deeper, and she came with a strangled moan, her body shaking, her pussy milking me.

I pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and pushed her knees up to her chest. She was open, trembling, and I sank back inside her, slow this time, watching her face. Her lips were parted, her eyes half-closed.

“Look at me,” I said.

She did. And I fucked her slow, deep, grinding against her clit with every stroke, until her breath came in ragged gasps and her nails bit into my shoulders.

“I’m going to come,” she whispered.

“Yo también.”

She came first, her back arching, her pussy flooding around me. And I followed, buried deep, spilling inside her with a groan that shook my chest.

We lay there, tangled and sweating, her head on my shoulder. The air smelled like sex and her perfume.

“So,” she said, her voice sleepy. “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the panties. “Then you’ll need something to remember me by.”

I took them. They were warm, still damp.

“I’ll be back next month,” I said.

She smiled, and her hand slid down my stomach. “I’ll be here.”