“Do you think we’ll get out of here today?” His voice was deep, smoky—a sound that came not from cigarettes but from nights of conversation and unspoken desires. I turned my head and looked at him properly for the first time. He was leaning against the counter next to me, his tie loosened, his jacket casually thrown over his arm. Gray temples, but young, alert eyes—a contradiction that drew me in immediately. He smelled of rain and something spicy, maybe cedarwood, maybe adventure.
“If the weather cooperates,” I said, pointing at the monitors where new delays flashed like bad omens. “My flight to Barcelona is canceled. And yours?”
“Milan. Canceled too. Now I’ve been stuck here for four hours waiting for a miracle.” He smiled crookedly, a smile that put creases around his eyes. “I’m Niklas, by the way.”
“Mara.”
We were silent for a moment. The hall was almost empty, just a few figures shuffling tiredly past the shops. Outside, the rain pounded against the windows as if it wanted to hold us here—forever, for this one night.
“Do you have a hotel yet?” he asked. It didn’t sound pushy, more pragmatic, but something else lurked beneath the surface. “The airline put me up in a remote place. But I don’t feel like sitting alone in a sterile room waiting for better weather.”
I felt the heat rise to my neck, slowly spreading across my chest. His gaze was direct but not demanding. He gave me space. And me? I was just tired from the trip, from the business calls, from the whole week. But when I looked at him, I knew: I didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight.
“I don’t have a room yet,” I said softly. “My hotel referred me to the airline. But if you’re looking for company…”
He grinned, and that grin made me melt inside—a promise of something I didn’t dare admit to myself. “Then we’ll share the suite. King-size bed, two bathrooms—perfectly respectable.”
I had to laugh, a laugh that sounded freer than anything all week. “You have a suite?”
“Upgrade. The only perk of flying as often as I do. Come on.” He took my hand, as naturally as if he’d done it a thousand times, and pulled me toward the exit. His grip was warm and firm, and I felt my pulse quicken.
The Hotel Room
The shuttle bus dropped us off in front of a gloomy brick building. It smelled of wet asphalt and autumn, of something lost. Niklas tipped the driver, then unlocked the door to the suite. The room was large, with a huge bed in the center, white sheets glowing in the half-darkness, two armchairs by the window. I dropped my bag and walked to the window. Outside, rain pelted the glass; the city was just a blurry sea of lights—unreachable, unimportant.
“Do you like it?” He stood close behind me, so near I felt his breath in my hair, warm and steady.
“It’s perfect,” I whispered, without turning around. My body already knew what was coming, even before my mind allowed it.
His hands settled on my shoulders, light, hesitant, as if testing the way. “Mara… I don’t want to rush anything. If you just want to sleep, we’ll sleep. But if not…”
I turned around. His face was inches from mine. I saw the fine lines around his eyes, the tiny silver threads in his beard, the slight shadow of fatigue. I placed my hand on his chest, felt his heartbeat under the shirt—fast, irregular. “I don’t want to sleep,” I said. “Not yet.”
His mouth found mine, soft at first, then more demanding. His lips were warm and tender, and I tasted coffee and something sweet, maybe honey. My hands slid under his jacket, pushed his shirt out of his pants. I felt the warmth of his skin, the muscles tensing under my fingers. He made a sound, half sigh, half groan, as my fingers touched his bare skin. Then he pulled my blouse from my skirt, his fingers finding the clasp of my bra. With a deft movement, he unfastened it, and I let it fall, freed. I stood before him in just my skirt and panties, and I felt his gaze like a touch—hot, hungry, unashamed.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. His hands cupped my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, which hardened instantly. I gasped as the sensation shot through me, an electric jolt that went straight between my legs. He leaned forward and took one nipple in his mouth while his hand massaged the other. I clutched his hair, let my head fall back, surrendered to the feeling. His mouth was hot, his tongue circling the hard tip, sucking gently, biting softly. I felt moisture rising between my legs, my pelvis pressing involuntarily against him, craving more.
He lifted me, carried me to the bed, and laid me on the white sheets. Then he knelt beside me, pulled off my skirt, my panties. His breath caught as he saw me naked before him—completely, open, ready. “So incredible,” he said hoarsely. His hand glided over my belly, lower, until his fingers touched my labia, already wet. I opened to him, lifted my hips, offered myself. He barely brushed over it, a foreplay that drove me crazy, that set every fiber of me on fire.
“Please,” I whispered. “More.”
He smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and bent down. His tongue found my clit, circled it slowly while his fingers slid into me—first one, then two. I moaned loudly, buried my hands in the sheets, held on tight. He worked with his mouth and hands, quickened the pace, slowed again, pushed me to the edge and held me there. I felt everything in me tighten, the wave building, unstoppable. But he stopped just before I came, leaving me trembling and empty.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “I want to be inside you.”
He straightened up, pulled off his shirt, his pants. His body was lean, muscular, with a fine line of chest hair leading to his navel. His cock was hard, the glistening tip wet, a promise. I sat up, took him in my hand, guided him to my mouth. I let my lips slide over the head, took him deep, as deep as I could. He groaned, held my head gently, but let me take control. I felt his hardness on my tongue, tasted the
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