The Suite Next Door

The hotel hallway smelled like carpet cleaner and stale room service. I was fumbling with my key card at 11 PM when I heard the door click open three rooms down.

And there she was.

Lena. Five years since the divorce, and she still wore that same black silk robe I bought her for our third anniversary. Her hair was shorter now, but the way she leaned against the doorframe, one hand on her hip, those green eyes dragging over me like she was deciding where to start...

"Well, shit," she said, and her voice was exactly the same — low, a little rough at the edges. "They put you on this floor?"

"Apparently." I couldn't stop staring. The robe had slipped open at the top, and I could see the curve of her collarbone, the hollow at the base of her throat. "Conference?"

"Marketing summit. You?"

"Same."

She laughed, and it was that sound I'd never quite gotten over — halfway between a scoff and a purr. "Of course. Of fucking course."

Neither of us moved. The hallway hummed with the ice machine down the hall.

"Want to come in?" she asked. "I've got whiskey. The good kind."

I followed her into the room. The bed was unmade, her laptop open on the desk, a pair of heels kicked off by the window. She poured two glasses without asking how I took it — she remembered. Of course she remembered.

We drank standing by the window, looking down at the city lights. Neither of us said anything for a long minute. Then she set her glass down, turned to face me, and untied her robe.

"Don't make me ask," she said.

I crossed the space between us in two steps. My hand went to her waist, the skin warm and familiar, and I pulled her against me. She was already breathing hard, her fingers curling into the front of my shirt.

"Tell me you've thought about this," she whispered.

"Every goddamn day."

"Good."

I kissed her, and it wasn't gentle. It was hungry and desperate, the way you kiss someone when you have five years of silence to break. Her mouth opened under mine, and she bit my lower lip, just hard enough to sting.

"I want you to fuck me," she said against my mouth. "Right now. No talking about it."

The robe fell to the floor. She was naked underneath, and I remembered the weight of her breasts, the way her hip curved into her waist. My hands found her ass, squeezed, and she made a sound — low, guttural, pleased.

"Bed," she said.

We fell onto it together. She was on top of me, straddling my hips, already working at my belt. Her fingers were quick and sure, and when she had my pants open, she reached inside and wrapped her hand around my cock.

"Fuck," she breathed. "I forgot how — "

"Don't talk about forgetting."

She laughed again, that same sound, but it broke into a moan as she guided me to her. She was wet, so wet that when I pushed into her, she slid down in one smooth motion, taking all of me.

For a second neither of us moved. She was tight and hot around me, her eyes closed, her head thrown back. Then she started to ride me, slow at first, a rolling motion that made me grip the sheets.

"Look at me," I said.

She did. Her eyes were dark, her lips parted, and she was watching me as she rocked her hips. I could feel every inch of her, the way she clenched around me, the wet sound of us moving together.

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

I flipped her onto her back. Her legs wrapped around my waist, and I drove into her, deep and fast, the way she always liked it. Her nails dug into my shoulders, and she was saying my name, over and over, like a curse and a prayer.

"That's it," she gasped. "Right there. Don't stop."

I didn't. I watched her face as she came, the way her mouth fell open, the way her body arched off the bed. And then I was coming too, buried inside her, my forehead pressed to hers.

Afterwards, we lay tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest. The whiskey sat untouched on the nightstand.

"So," she said, her voice sleepy. "Same time tomorrow?"

I kissed the top of her head.

"Same time tomorrow."