El Nudo de Terciopelo

The hotel room smelled like lavender soap and old carpet. I’d been shooting Lena for three hours, and the robe — that ridiculous, deep-red terrycloth thing she’d found in the closet — had become the whole fucking shoot.

“One more,” I said, lowering the camera. “But this time, lose the belt.”

She laughed, that low, throaty sound that had been doing things to my blood since she walked into the lobby. “Marcus, you’ve been saying ‘one more’ for an hour.”

“Because you keep giving me something worth shooting.”

She stood by the window, the city lights smearing behind her like wet paint. The robe hung open just enough to show the pale line of her collarbone, the shadow between her breasts. She didn’t tie it. She just held it closed with one hand, fingers grazing the fabric.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“I’m composing.”

“Bullshit.”

I set the camera down on the desk. “Okay. I’m not composing.”

She let the robe fall open. Just a little. Just enough.

“Come here,” she said.

I crossed the room in three steps. She smelled like hotel soap and sweat and something floral underneath. Her hand came up and touched my chest, flat against my shirt.

“You’ve been looking at me like this all day,” she said.

“You’ve been looking back.”

She smiled, slow and crooked. Then she pulled the robe off one shoulder. The fabric slipped, caught on her nipple, and I watched it drag across the tight peak of it before falling free.

—Quítatelo —dije.

She shook her head. “You do it.”

My fingers found the belt — still looped through the other side — and I pulled. The knot came loose with a soft whisper of fabric. The robe fell open. She was naked underneath. No bra. No panties. Just her, pale and warm and waiting.

“Jesus, Lena.”

«Cállate y tócame.»

I pushed the robe off her shoulders. It pooled on the carpet. She stepped out of it, and I pulled her against me, my hands flat on her back, her skin hot from the window light. Her mouth found mine, and she kissed me hard, teeth and tongue, no warm-up.

I walked her backward until her thighs hit the edge of the bed. She fell onto it with a soft grunt, and I was on top of her before she could catch her breath. Her legs opened, and I settled between them, already hard, already aching.

“I want to feel you,” she said, her voice rough. “No more waiting.”

I didn’t make her wait. I unbuttoned my jeans, pushed them down, and she reached between us and took my cock in her hand. Her fingers were cool, then warm, then wet as she guided me to her.

“Fuck,” I breathed, as the head of my cock pushed into her.

She was slick and tight, and she gasped when I slid all the way in. Her back arched, and her nails dug into my shoulders.

“Yes,” she said. “Like that.”

I fucked her slow at first, deep, watching her face. Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth open, her breath coming in short little gasps. The robe was still on the floor, a puddle of red between us.

“Harder,” she said.

I gave it to her. I drove into her, the bed creaking under us, her tits bouncing with every thrust. She wrapped her legs around my waist and pulled me deeper.

“Don’t stop,” she said. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

I didn’t. I fucked her until she came, her body clamping around me, her head thrown back, a long, low moan tearing out of her throat. I followed a second later, buried deep inside her, my whole body shaking.

We lay there, tangled in the sheets, the robe forgotten on the floor.

In the morning, she was already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, sipping coffee from a paper cup. She was wearing my shirt.

“You stole my shirt,” I said.

“You stole my robe.”

I looked at the floor. The red terrycloth was still there, crumpled, a knot of fabric.

“Keep it,” I said.

She smiled. “I already packed it.”