The Hotel Room

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I push a stray strand of hair behind my ear, watching the dial tick away as we pass each floor

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I push a stray strand of hair behind my ear, watching the dial tick away as we pass each floor.

"Where are we going?" His low voice pulls me away from the soft hum of the elevator. I look in the mirror to the man at the corner.

His dirty blonde hair is up in a bun, no longer hanging beside his face in flat waves as it was in the club on eight street. Weirdly it makes his five-o-clock shadow more prominent, highlighting the reflective black shades of his sunglasses.

"To my room, of course," I say.

Confident but not cocky. That's the type of person I am meant to be this evening, down to the style of pubic hair, if any. The doors slide open with a whoosh revealing the barren hallways. I rented out the floor; goodness knows how loud it's about get.

I take his hand forcing him out of the elevator heading to the end of the hall.

"This must've set you back?"

I spin around on my heels, walking backwards.

"This place?" I turn back admiring the hidden lighting fixtures across the ceiling that give the hallway a calm ambience. My hand strokes the cushioned wall, tracing over the number on each mahogany door.

The Hampshire Hotel is pricey, something that only a select few can afford and I happen to be one of them.

"Not in the slightest," comes my remark, he smirks at me, his head low so I don't see his smile. We stop at the end of the hallway where a large pane of glass separates us from the outside world.

I press my hands against the window looking across the city decorated with shades of a pale yellow against the darkness of the night sky.

He wraps his hand around my waist while the other runs down the length of my exposed back. I shiver at his cold touch, my insides warming as he pushes himself against me, the tension in his pants evident against my back.

"Come, Diana."

"It's Delilah," I correct. What a dick! He's testing me to see if I remember who I'm playing today. I'm a seasoned employee, not some amateur.

He pulls the keycard out from my back pocket and inserts it into the slot above the handle. The light flashes green and he pulls me in behind him as the door opens. I give one last look at the scene behind me before going in with him.

Dropping my bag on the floor, I kick off my heels while he stands and observes me briefly. He turns to the window and opens the mini-fridge, taking out a small bottle of whiskey with a frosted glass.

I remove my clothes, stripping the fabric off and letting it fall gracefully off my body.

He pours the brown liquid just halfway into the glass, bringing it to his lips but stops; seeing my reflection in the window causes him to put the glass down the clunk echoes in the silent room.

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