I swipe my keycard and step out of room 6866. The corridor echoes with distant suitcase wheels rumbling toward elevators. My flight’s tomorrow—perfect anonymity in this neon-lit city hotel overlooking the airport runways. Blinking red eyes from post-concert highs, I head down to the bar. Plush velvet booths, crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes clinking. Eyes track me, but I play it cool, stiff-legged, aiming for a dim corner table.
Bam. A shoulder slams me backward. I tumble, then strong arms hoist me up. Security hauling a scruffy guy—blue eyes piercing, three-day stubble, defiant grin. His manager-type squeaks apologies. The drunk grabs a glass, smashes it on a guard’s neck, shoves the weasel, bolts for the exit. He flashes me that smile. Electric. I chase without thinking, heels clicking marble floors, past the doorman into the night.
The Spark in the Hotel Bar
Streetlights battle shadows. He yanks me into a dingy alley behind the hotel’s glamour. Arm around my throat, hot breath: ‘Safer in the dark than chased by fans, Miss Alison?’ He loosens. I spin—it’s him, Mark. ‘Or from hotel security, Mark?’ We laugh. He pulls vodka from his jacket—’borrowed’ from the bar. We push aside crates, improvise seats. Shots flow, stories spill. He’s a guitarist, freshly dumped, homeless tonight. Passions align: provocation, irony.
I beg him to play. He digs out his battered guitar from a bag. Fingers dance—my secret setlist. Exact chords. Ends with my band’s Nedse track. I sing, swaying closer. Lips crash. Tongues duel. Nails dig his neck. He pins me to brick, bites my lip. Belt undone, I stroke his growing bulge. Zipper rasps.
Alleyway Frenzy and Raw Surrender
He flips me, wrists pinned. Knees spread my thighs, hand dives into my jeans, finds wet panties. I yank his hair: ‘Not so fast.’ He laughs: ‘Scream rape? No one’s saving junkie-looking us.’ Fingers plunge my soaked bush, clit throbbing. I shred his shirt, scorch his chest. Pants down, I kneel, lick balls to tip, swallow deep. Sloppy, fierce. He groans, lifts me, tongue-fucks my mouth.
Back to wall, his cock teases my slit. ‘Gonna leave you hanging?’ Defiant stare. He thrusts in—easy glide. Hips slam, relentless. I claw his ass, urging deeper. Orgasms build. He pulls out, flattens a crate, missionary pounds. I flip him, ride hard. Pussy grips, walls milking. I shatter first, screaming muffled. He explodes inside, growling.
We dress fast, stumble to streetlight glow. ‘Call the hotel tomorrow, room 6866, after 11. Need a guitarist for radio gig.’ He smirks: ‘Gigolo?’ ‘Just talent.’ I walk off. He grabs, spins, devours my mouth. I melt. ‘Admit it—you’re impressed.’ Blush burns. ‘Fine, talent… and balls.’ Vexed, I flee to the lobby, fingers tracing lips. Hating how he owns me. Tomorrow’s flight erases it all.