Mountain Chalet

The floorboard creaked above my head, and I froze, coffee mug halfway to my lips. That sound again — the same soft footsteps I'd been hearing every night since I checked into this mountain chalet. I set the mug down, telling myself to stop being an idiot. It was just the old place settling. Old places always settle.

But I knew better. I'd seen her the first morning, coming out of the room next to mine at the end of the hall, her dark hair still damp from the shower, wearing nothing but a silk robe that barely reached her thighs. She'd smiled at me — a slow, knowing smile — and said, "You must be the new guest. I'm Lena."

I'd barely managed to stammer my own name. Mark. My name was Mark, and I was a married man with a wife waiting back in the city, and none of that mattered when Lena looked at me like that.

Tonight, the footsteps stopped outside my door.

I held my breath. A soft knock, three quick taps.

"Mark?" Her voice was low, almost a whisper through the wood. "I know you're awake."

I opened the door. She stood in the hallway, wearing that same silk robe, this time tied loose at her waist, the fabric slipping off one shoulder. The light from my room caught the curve of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat.

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "Thought maybe you couldn't either."

"Lena, I—"

"I know you're married." She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her — soap and something else, something warm and clean, like pine needles after rain. "I don't care about that. Do you?"

My throat went dry. "I should care."

"But do you?" Her hand came up, fingers brushing my chest, the fabric of my shirt. "Tell me to go, and I'll go. But if you want me to stay..."

I stepped back, and she followed me inside, letting the door click shut behind her.

The room was small — a bed, a nightstand, a window that looked out at the dark mountains. Lena walked past me, her fingers trailing along my arm as she went, and stopped at the foot of the bed. She turned to face me, and her hands went to the knot at her waist.

"Watch," she said.

The robe fell open. She shrugged it off her shoulders, and it slid down her arms, pooling at her feet. She was naked underneath — no underwear, no pretense. The lamplight painted her skin gold, shadows pooling between her breasts, at the hollow of her hips.

"Fuck," I breathed.

She smiled, slow and wicked. "That's the idea."

I crossed the room in three steps, my hands finding her waist, her skin warm and smooth under my palms. She arched into me, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. Her mouth found mine — hungry, demanding, tasting faintly of red wine.

"Touch me," she whispered against my lips. "I want to feel your hands on me."

I didn't need to be told twice. My hands roamed her back, the curve of her spine, the swell of her ass. She was soft everywhere, yielding under my fingers, and when I squeezed her ass she gasped into my mouth, her hips pressing forward, grinding against the hard line of my cock through my jeans.

"Fuck, Mark." Her voice was ragged. "I've been thinking about this since I saw you. Every night, lying in my bed, listening to you move around in here, touching myself, wishing it was your hands."

The image hit me like a punch to the gut — Lena in her room, legs spread, fingers working herself while I slept three feet away. "Show me," I said. "Show me how you touched yourself."

She bit her lip, her eyes dark and glittering. Then she stepped back, just enough to let one hand trail down her stomach, between her legs. Her fingers found her wetness, and she let out a soft moan, her head falling back.

"Like this," she breathed. "I thought about your mouth here. Your tongue."

I dropped to my knees in front of her.

Her hand was still between her legs, and I pushed it aside, replacing her fingers with my own. She was slick and hot, her thighs trembling as I parted her folds, finding her clit with my thumb. I leaned in, my tongue flat against her, tasting her — salt and musk and something sweet underneath.

"Oh, God." Her hand fisted in my hair, pulling me closer. "Yes, right there, don't stop—"

I didn't stop. I licked her slowly, deliberately, circling her clit with the tip of my tongue while my fingers slid inside her, one, then two, curling up until I found the spot that made her gasp and buck against my hand.

"I'm close," she panted. "I'm so close, Mark, please—"

I sucked her clit into my mouth, and she came apart with a cry, her thighs clamping around my head, her body shuddering through wave after wave. I kept my mouth on her until she went limp, her grip on my hair loosening, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

Then I stood, my jeans tight and aching, and she looked up at me with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Tu turno," dijo.

She pushed me onto the bed, climbed on top of me, and her hands found the button of my jeans. She undressed me slowly, deliberately, kissing each inch of skin as she uncovered it — my stomach, my hips, the inside of my thigh. When she wrapped her hand around my cock, I groaned, my head falling back against the pillow.

"Fuck, Lena."

"Shh." She stroked me once, twice, slow and teasing. "I want to take my time with you."

She lowered her head, her tongue tracing the length of me, and then her mouth closed over the head, warm and wet and perfect. I watched her — the way her lips stretched around me, the way her eyes never left mine, the way she took me deeper, inch by inch, until her nose pressed against my stomach and I felt the back of her throat.

"Jesus," I gasped. "Lena, I'm not going to last—"

She pulled off just long enough to say, "I don't want you to last. I want you to come in my mouth."

She took me again, her hand working the base while her tongue swirled around the head, and I let go, groaning her name as I came, hot and hard, down her throat. She swallowed, moaning around me, her eyes fluttering closed, and when I finally stopped twitching she pulled off slowly, licking her lips.

"Good," she said, crawling up to lie beside me. "But we're not done yet."

I turned to face her, my hand finding her hip, pulling her close. "No?"

"No." She smiled, that same slow, wicked smile. "I want you inside me. I want to feel you."

I rolled her onto her back, my body covering hers, my cock already hard again against her thigh. She reached down, guided me to her entrance, and I pushed in slowly, watching her face as I filled her.

"Fuck, Mark," she breathed. "You feel so good."

I started moving, slow at first, deep and deliberate, watching her tits bounce with each thrust. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper, and her nails raked down my back, leaving trails of fire.

"Harder," she demanded. "Fuck me harder."

I gave her what she wanted, my hips slamming into hers, the bed creaking beneath us, her moans growing louder and more desperate. I reached between us, finding her clit, rubbing in circles that matched my thrusts.

"I'm going to come again," she gasped. "Don't stop, don't you fucking stop—"

She came with a scream, her body clenching around me, and that was all it took. I buried myself deep, my release flooding her, my forehead pressed to hers as we rode out the waves together.

Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest, my hand tracing lazy circles on her back. The window had fogged over, and the mountains outside were just dark shapes against the sky.

"I should go," she whispered.

"You should stay."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she lifted her head, her lips brushing mine. "Just tonight."

"Just tonight," I agreed.

But we both knew it was a lie.

The morning came gray and cold, and I woke to the smell of coffee. Lena was sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed in her robe, a cup in her hands. She smiled at me, soft and sad.

"I made breakfast," she said. "You should eat before you go."

I sat up, the sheets falling away. "Lena—"

"Don't." She stood, pressing the coffee into my hands. "Don't say anything you'll regret. We had tonight. That's enough."

I drank the coffee. It was perfect — hot and strong and just bitter enough. She watched me drink it, and when I set the cup down, she leaned in and kissed me, soft and slow, her hand cupping my jaw.

"Thank you," she said.

¿Para qué?

"For wanting me. For not pretending."

She left before I could answer, the door closing softly behind her. And I sat there, in the quiet mountain chalet, the coffee growing cold in my hands, and wondered how I was supposed to go back to my life after this.