The Other Woman's Key

"You've lost your mind," I breathed, though I couldn't tear my eyes from her lips.

Maylin smiled, just the corners of her mouth, and something in that smile made my throat go dry. She stood in the doorway of my hotel room, shoulder propped against the frame, sparks dancing in her dark eyes. The room was standard: a king bed, a nightstand with a lamp, a stack of towels on a chair, blinds on the windows. The air conditioner hummed behind the wall.

"Mike," she said softly, almost a whisper, "we've got half an hour. Max is at a meeting, but he could be back early."

I swallowed. Maylin—my best friend's wife. We'd known each other five years. And all five years, I'd lied to myself that I didn't notice how she looked at me, how she tucked her hair behind her ear when I was near, how her breath caught if I accidentally touched her hand.

She stepped into the room. The lock clicked behind her.

"You do realize—" I started, but she pressed a finger to my lips.

"I realize everything. I want this. I want you."

Heat flooded through me. Maylin moved closer. She smelled of expensive perfume and something sweet—maybe the coffee she'd been drinking in the bar. Her ivory silk blouse hugged her tits tight, her pencil skirt cinched her hips. Her Asian features set her apart from other women—delicate cheekbones, slightly almond-shaped eyes, skin smooth as porcelain.

"I've thought about this," I admitted, my voice rough. "Every time you walk past me."

"I know." Her laugh held no coyness—just solid certainty. "Me too."

Her hands landed on my chest. Slowly, as if studying me, she ran her palms down over my stomach, stopping at my belt. I caught her wrists.

"If someone walks in—"

"No one will," she cut me off. "We're locked in. And I want you to fuck me. Right now."

Those words stole my breath. Maylin never talked like that. Never. She was always reserved, polite, the perfect wife. But now her eyes burned with such wild, desperate hunger that I forgot everything else.

I yanked her against me, crushed my mouth to hers. She answered immediately—greedy, opening wide, threading her fingers through my hair. I felt her tongue slide over my teeth, heard her soft moan swallowed by the kiss. My hands roamed her back, working the buttons of her blouse. They fought me, my fingers trembling.

"Hurry," she gasped against my lips. "We don't have much time."

I stripped off her blouse, tossed it to the floor. A nude lace bra barely contained her tits. I ran my thumb over her nipple, and she arched, head thrown back. A strangled moan escaped her.

"Mike..."

I dropped to my knees, unzipped her skirt. It slid down, revealing long legs in black stockings held up by a garter belt. She stepped out of the fabric. Left in just her panties—thin, nearly weightless, dark with moisture showing through.

"You're so fucking beautiful," I breathed, running my hands up her thighs.

She said nothing, just looked down at me, breathing hard. I peeled off her panties, slow, inch by inch. She was already wet, a slick trail glistening on the inside of her thigh. I leaned in, ran my tongue along that trail, and she shuddered, gripping my shoulder.

"Fuck," she gasped. "More."

I stood, scooped her up, and tossed her onto the bed. She laughed—low, aroused. The springs groaned. I hovered over her, braced on my hands. Her eyes glittered, her lips swollen from kissing.

"Get naked," she ordered.

I ripped off my shirt, jeans, boxers. My cock was rock hard, the head already slick with precum. She reached out, wrapped her hand around it, and I hissed through my teeth.

"So big," she whispered, stroking her thumb over the head. "I want it inside me."

I spread her legs with my knee. She was open, wet, ready. I pushed in slow, inch by inch, feeling her walls grip me. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. Her eyes rolled back.

"Yes..." she breathed. "Give it to me."

I started moving. Slow at first, deep, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in. She wrapped her legs around me, heels digging into my lower back. The sheets twisted beneath us. The only sounds in the room were the wet slap of flesh and ragged breathing.

"Faster," she whispered. "Please."

I sped up. Each thrust was deeper, harder. She dug her nails into my shoulders, raking my skin. Her moans grew louder, and I clamped my hand over her mouth.

"Shh," I breathed. "They'll hear."

She nodded, but her eyes blazed with madness. I pulled my hand away and bent down, kissing her neck, her collarbone, her tits. I took her nipple in my mouth, and she arched, fisting my hair.

"I'm close..." she gasped. "Mike, I'm—"

"Come," I whispered. "Come with me."

I felt her muscles clench around me, felt her body bow, felt her shudder through her orgasm. That pushed me over—I came deep inside her, face buried in her shoulder, feeling my cock pulse with every spasm.

For a few seconds we lay still, gasping. Then she laughed softly and ran her hand down my back.

"We need to get dressed," she said.

I nodded but didn't move. Her skin smelled of sweat and sex. I kissed her shoulder.

"That was insane."

"I know." She smiled. "But it was worth it."

We dressed in silence. She fixed her blouse, smoothed her hair, wiped away smeared lipstick. The woman in the mirror was completely different—composed, calm.

"I'll see you tonight," she said at the door.

"Maylin..."

She turned.

"I don't regret it," I said.

She smiled with just her eyes and slipped into the hallway. I stood in the middle of the room, listening to her footsteps fade. The air conditioner hummed on, monotonous. On the nightstand lay her panties—a thin scrap of silk I clenched in my fist until I heard the elevator door close.