When the bartender said the last subway was leaving in five minutes, I should have gotten up. Instead, I ordered a double whiskey—the third, maybe the fourth. The ice cubes clinked against the glass, and I stared at the amber liquid as if it held answers to questions I didn’t dare ask myself. The smell of stale beer and lost dreams hung in the air, thick as fog.
One Drink Too Many
I was on a business trip, some city, some conference. The faces of the participants were already blurring. My flight left at seven in the morning, but the thought of the empty hotel room—of the humming air conditioner, the untouched other side of the bed—was unbearable. So I stayed. A woman alone in a bar at midnight: it drew looks, some pitying, some appraising. I didn’t care. I owed no one an explanation.
Then he sat down on the stool next to me. Not too close, but close enough that I could smell his cologne—woody, with a hint of cinnamon. He was mid-thirties, I guessed, dark hair that curled slightly at the temples, a three-day stubble that didn’t look sloppy but deliberately set. He wore a dark coat, underneath a shirt with its top button undone. His gaze was direct, but not intrusive.
“Missed the last train too?” I asked, more to say something than out of real interest. My voice sounded hoarser than I’d intended.
He smiled. “No, I’m here by car. But I saw you alone. I thought, maybe I’d keep you company.” A pause. “If you’d like that.”
Actually, I wanted to be alone. But something about his calm manner, the way he greeted the bartender by name—as if he were a regular, though he surely wasn’t—made me nod. “Have a seat.”
He ordered two whiskeys without asking what I was drinking. “A double for the lady, one for me. Single malt, if you have it.” The bartender nodded. He was no novice.
“How do you know I like whiskey?” I asked. “I’m guessing,” he said. “You wrinkled your nose when the bartender poured the cheap blend.” I had to laugh. He was right.
We talked. About nothing and everything. About the city neither of us knew, about the strange people at conferences who constantly swapped business cards as if life were one big networking event. He said his name was Lukas, but that could have been a lie. I didn’t care. In my thoughts, I called him “the man with the cinnamon scent.”
At some point, he placed his hand on the counter, close to my glass. His fingers were long, the nails short and clean. I stared at it as he lightly swirled the glass, the amber liquid sloshing up the side. My pulse quickened. I felt warmth radiating from his hand, even though it wasn’t touching me. It was silly, almost childish, but my whole body reacted to this minimal gesture.
He noticed my gaze. “Do you like hands?” he asked softly. I swallowed. “Depends on who they belong to.” He turned his hand over, showing the palm, the lines like a map. “Then look at them. Very closely.”
I dared to. I took his hand, felt the warmth, the rough spots on his fingertips—maybe from playing guitar or from work. My fingers glided over his palm, following the lines. He audibly inhaled. The tension between us was palpable, an invisible thread stretching and vibrating.
“My name isn’t Lukas, by the way,” he said, his voice deeper, rougher. “Sorry, I didn’t want to come right out with my real name. I’m Simon.” I smiled. “And I’m not the woman I was supposed to be tonight. Just call me whatever you want.”
“I’ll call you the woman who missed the last train,” he said. “And I’m the man who drives her home.”
The Decision
It was one of those decisions you don’t make rationally. It just happened. I finished my whiskey, set the glass down with a soft clink on the counter, and turned to him. His face was in the half-darkness of the bar, the shadows highlighting his cheekbones, making his eyes look dark. “Drive me to the hotel,” I said. “But I’m not promising anything.”
He nodded, as if he’d expected exactly that. He laid a bill on the counter that far exceeded the tab and took my coat from the hook. I let him help me into it, and his fingers brushed my neck. A hot flash shot through me, settling between my legs and pulsing there.
Outside, the city was cold and wet. A fine drizzle hung in the air, the streetlights casting orange circles on the asphalt. His car was a black station wagon, unremarkable, but clean inside. I sat down in the passenger seat, and when he closed the door, I was trapped in a bubble of leather scent and his proximity. The engine started almost silently.
He drove without asking where to. “I’d like to know your name,” he said, without taking his eyes off the road. “Doesn’t matter if it’s your real name or not. I want a name to think of you by later.”
“Lena,” I said. Why Lena? No idea. Maybe because it sounded soft, not too intrusive. “Call me Lena.”
“Lena,” he repeated, and I liked the sound of his voice when he said my name. He stressed the first syllable slightly, let the ‘a’ linger a bit longer. “Nice. Where am I driving you, Lena?”
I told him the hotel. It was a big box on the outskirts, one of those sleeping quarters for business travelers, with a glass facade and a lobby that smelled of disinfectant. But in a few minutes we were there. He parked in the visitor lot, turned off the engine. The silence was suddenly deafening.
“I won’t come up if you don’t want me to,” he said. “I’ll wait here. If you come down, I’ll drive you back to the bar, or wherever you want. Or I’ll drive home. Whatever you like.”
I stared through the windshield at the illuminated entrance door. Behind it, my empty room, the wide bed, the TV with pay-per-view movies. Or here, this man, who hadn’t even told me his real name, and whose hands I still wanted to feel on my skin.
“Come with me,” I said. My voice didn’t tremble; it was firm. As if I’d already decided long ago, when I first spoke to him in the bar.
In the Hotel Room
In the elevator, we stood side by side without touching. But I felt his presence like a second skin, the warmth radiating from him. His hand hung loosely at his side, close to mine, and I felt the magnetic pull. I wanted to reach out and take it, but I held back. The anticipation was intoxicating, building a pressure inside me that demanded release.
The door to my room clicked shut behind us, and the world outside ceased to exist. The hum of the air conditioner, the faint light from the city seeping through the curtains—it all faded. There was only him, only us, only this moment.
He turned to me, his eyes dark and intense. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. I answered by stepping forward, closing the distance between us, and pressing my lips to his.
The kiss was not gentle. It was hungry, desperate, a clash of teeth and tongue. His hands found my waist, pulling me against him, and I felt the hard length of him through his trousers. I moaned into his mouth, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He tasted of whiskey and something else, something uniquely him.
His hands roamed down, gripping my ass firmly, lifting me slightly. I wrapped my legs around his waist, and he carried me to the bed, laying me down on the cool sheets. He hovered over me, his breath hot on my neck, his lips trailing down to my collarbone.
“I want to taste you,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire. “Every inch.”
I shivered, my body responding to his words. He unbuttoned my blouse slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing against my skin with each button. When he reached the last one, he pushed the fabric aside, revealing my lace bra. He groaned, dipping his head to press kisses along the swell of my breasts.
I arched into him, craving more. He reached behind me, unhooking my bra with practiced ease, and pulled it away. His mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard, while his hand teased the other. I cried out, my hips bucking against him. The sensation was electric, shooting straight to my core.
He worked his way down, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire across my stomach. When he reached the waistband of my skirt, he paused, looking up at me. “May I?” he asked, his eyes dark with need. I nodded, unable to speak.
He slid my skirt and panties off in one smooth motion, leaving me naked and exposed before him. He spread my legs wide, his gaze fixed on my wet, glistening pussy. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on me.
His tongue found my clit immediately, licking and sucking with a skill that made me see stars. I grabbed his hair, pulling him harder against me, my moans filling the room. He slid two fingers inside me, curling them to hit that perfect spot, and I screamed as my orgasm crashed over me, wave after wave of pleasure.
He didn’t stop, licking me through my climax until I was trembling and oversensitive. Then he crawled up my body, his cock pressing against my thigh. “I need to be inside you,” he said, his voice strained.
“Yes,” I gasped. “Now.”
He positioned himself at my entrance, and I felt the tip of his cock, thick and hard, pressing against me. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling me completely. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he began to move.
Each thrust was deep and powerful, hitting me exactly where I needed it. Our bodies moved together in a primal rhythm, skin slapping against skin, our breaths mingling in the dark. I could feel another orgasm building, coiling tight in my belly.
“I’m close,” I panted, my nails digging into his back.
“Come for me, Lena,” he growled, his pace quickening. “I want to feel you come around my cock.”
That was all it took. I shattered, my pussy clenching around him as I came, and he followed moments later, his hot seed spilling inside me. He collapsed on top of me, his weight a comforting pressure, his breath hot against my neck.
We lay there for a long moment, tangled together, our hearts pounding in unison. I had never felt so alive, so completely consumed by another person. And I knew, in that moment, that I wanted more.
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