Last Call
"Closing time at a hotel bar. They're the only two left. The bartender's hinting they should leave. Neither has anywhere to be. Her room is closer."
The bartender's been wiping the same glass for ten minutes.
I get it. It's almost two in the morning. The hotel bar closed forty-five minutes ago. Every stool is empty except two—mine, and the one three seats down where she's been nursing her fourth whiskey sour.
I should leave. I have a flight at eight. A meeting tomorrow afternoon. A life waiting for me back home that doesn't include staying up all night in a Marriott bar staring at a woman I'll never see again.
But I can't stop looking.
She's in red.
A cocktail dress that wasn't designed for a body like hers—or maybe it was, and the designer was a goddamn genius. The fabric clings to every curve, straining at the seams, losing a slow war against flesh that refuses to be contained. Her breasts are enormous, pushed up and together by whatever engineering miracle lives beneath that dress, creating a canyon of soft cleavage that catches the bar's dim light.
Her arms are bare and round. Her hips spread wide on the stool, the dress riding up her thick thighs. When she shifts, everything moves—ripples and sways and settles.
She's been here as long as I have. We haven't spoken. But I've caught her looking too.
"Conference?"
Her voice startles me. Low and smoky, like she's been drinking longer than just tonight.
"What?"
"The conference. The tech thing." She gestures vaguely with her glass. "That's why you're here, right? You have that look. Rumpled suit, dead eyes, three-drink minimum just to tolerate the networking."
I laugh despite myself. "That obvious?"
"Takes one to know one." She turns on her stool, and the dress protests audibly. A seam somewhere gives up the fight. She doesn't seem to notice or care. "I'm supposed to be excited about synergizing deliverables or whatever. Instead I'm drinking alone in a hotel bar."
"You're not alone."
She looks at me then. Really looks. Her eyes are dark, lined with smudged makeup that suggests a long day. Mid-to-late thirties. Wedding ring tan line on her left hand, but no ring. Hair that started the day styled and has since surrendered to gravity and bar humidity.
"No," she says. "I guess I'm not."
The bartender coughs.
"Folks, I really need to close out—"
"One more round." She doesn't look at him. Keeps her eyes on me. "On my room."
He sighs. Pours. Disappears into the back, probably to count the minutes until we leave.
She slides off her stool and walks toward me. Every step is a production—her hips swaying, her thighs brushing together, her breasts threatening to overflow the neckline with each movement. She's not thin. Not anywhere close. Two-twenty, maybe two-thirty, all of it packed into a frame that was built for this kind of dress and this kind of attention.
She takes the stool next to mine. The one right next to mine.
"I'm Grace."
"Marcus."
"Marcus." She tastes my name like it's the whiskey in her hand. "You look like a Marcus. Responsible. Sensible. The kind of man who goes to bed at a reasonable hour."
"Usually."
"But not tonight."
"No." I watch her bring the glass to her lips. Watch the way her throat moves when she swallows. "Not tonight."
"Can I be honest with you, Marcus?"
"We're strangers in a hotel bar at two AM. I think honesty is all we've got."
She laughs. It does something to her chest—everything shakes, trembles, threatens to spill. My mouth goes dry.
"I'm bored," she says. "Not with this conversation. With—" She waves her hand again. "Everything. My life. My career. The endless parade of conferences and meetings and pretending I care about things I stopped caring about years ago."
"What do you care about?"
"Tonight?" She looks at me over the rim of her glass. "Feeling something. Anything. Something that isn't just... going through the motions."
"And how's that going?"
She sets her glass down. Turns her body toward mine. Her knee brushes my thigh, and even through the fabric of my pants, I feel the heat of her.
"Better than expected," she says. "Now that you're closer."
The bartender reappears. Clears his throat again. Louder this time.
"Last call was an hour ago, folks. I really—"
"We're leaving." Grace reaches into her clutch, pulls out a room key. Slides it across the bar with a credit card. "Room 847. Charge the tab there."
He takes the card. Doesn't quite manage to hide his relief.
Grace stands. Her hand finds my arm—her fingers soft and warm against my sleeve.
"My room's closer than yours," she says. "I checked the floor numbers earlier. You're what, eleven?"
"Twelve."
"So my room's closer." Her thumb traces a circle on my wrist. "You should walk me there. It's late. A woman shouldn't walk alone."
"That's very responsible of me."
"You look like a responsible man." She's close enough now that I can smell her—perfume and whiskey and something underneath that might just be want. "But I'm hoping you're not too responsible."
I stand. My hand finds the small of her back, settles into the curve where her waist swells into her hips. So much softness. So much warmth.
"Let's find out."
The elevator takes forever.
Or maybe it doesn't. Maybe it's just that standing this close to her, watching her reflection in the brushed metal doors, feeling her body pressed against my side, makes every second stretch into hours.
"You're thinking too much," she says.
"How do you know?"
"You have a line." She reaches up, traces her finger between my eyebrows. "Right here. It gets deeper when you think. You've been thinking since we got in."
"I'm thinking about a lot of things."
"Like what?"
The doors open. Eighth floor. She steps out, and I follow, my hand still on her back.
"Like whether this is a good idea."
"It's not." She walks down the hall, heels clicking on thin carpet. "It's a terrible idea. We're strangers. You have a flight in six hours. I have a panel at nine I absolutely will not make."
"So why are we doing this?"
She stops at door 847. Turns. In the hallway light, I can see the flush on her chest, the rapid rise and fall of those impossible breasts.
"Because I've been good my whole life." She slides the key card through the reader. The light turns green. "And tonight, I want to be something else."
The door swings open.
She pulls me inside.
The room is dark except for the city lights through unclosed curtains.
She pushes me against the wall the moment the door clicks shut. Her mouth finds mine—hungry, demanding, tasting of whiskey and desperation. Her body presses against me, all that flesh pinning me in place, and I'm drowning in her.
My hands find her hips. Pull her closer. She gasps against my lips.
"Yes," she breathes. "Touch me. I need—God, I need someone to touch me like they mean it."
I spin her. Press her against the wall instead. My mouth finds her neck, that soft column of skin above her straining neckline, and I bite down gently. She moans—low and broken—and her head falls back.
"The dress," she pants. "It zips in the back. If you can find it under all the—"
I find it. Drag it down. The sound of the zipper is obscene in the quiet room.
And then the dress falls.
She's magnificent.
Pale skin glowing in the city light. Breasts barely contained by a black bra that's working harder than any piece of fabric should have to—each cup overflowing, the straps digging into her shoulders. Her belly is round and soft, folding gently over the waistband of black panties that disappear between her thighs. Her hips are wide enough to fill doorways, her ass a revelation of curves and dimples I want to worship.
"I know I'm not—" she starts.
"Don't." I step closer. Run my hands up her sides, feeling her shiver. "Don't finish that sentence."
"Marcus—"
"You're the most beautiful thing I've seen in years." I mean it. Every word. "And I'm going to spend the next few hours proving it to you."
Her breath catches. Her eyes go bright. And then she's kissing me again, pulling at my shirt, yanking it free from my pants with hands that shake.
We make it to the bed.
Barely. We leave a trail of clothes behind us—my shirt, my pants, her bra finally giving up its heroic struggle. She falls back onto the mattress and I follow her down, and then I'm on top of her, surrounded by her, drowning in flesh.
Her breasts are everywhere. Massive, spreading across her chest, nipples dark and peaked. I take one in my mouth and she arches off the bed, crying out. My hand finds the other, squeezing, kneading, feeling the weight of her fill my palm.
"More," she gasps. "I need more—"
I kiss down her body. Her belly trembles under my lips. Her thighs fall open as I settle between them, and I pull her panties aside—
She's soaked.
Glistening. Swollen. Ready.
"I've been wet since you looked at me," she admits. "Since the first time I caught you staring at my chest. I knew—oh fuck—I knew what you were thinking—"
I seal my mouth over her and she stops talking.
She tastes like need.
I lick her slowly at first—long strokes from her entrance to her clit, learning what makes her shake, what makes her moan. Her thighs clamp around my head, thick and soft and trembling, and I can't hear anything but her muffled cries.
"Right there—fuck—don't stop—"
I don't stop. I work her clit with my tongue while I slide two fingers inside her, curling them, finding the spot that makes her back arch clear off the mattress. She's so wet I can hear it—obscene sounds filling the room, mixing with her broken moans.
"I'm gonna—Marcus, I'm—"
She comes.
Her whole body seizes. Her thighs crush my head. Her cunt clenches around my fingers in waves, and she screams—not a moan, not a gasp, a full-throated scream that the neighbors are definitely going to hear.
I don't care.
I keep licking her through it. And when she finally collapses, boneless and panting, I crawl up her body and kiss her, letting her taste herself on my lips.
"Your turn," she whispers.
She pushes me onto my back.
Straddles me. All that weight settling on my thighs, her wet heat pressed against my cock through my boxers. Her breasts hang above me like ripe fruit, swaying as she reaches down to free me.
"I want to ride you," she says. "I want to feel you inside me while I use you. Is that okay?"
"Grace—"
"I just—" She strokes me, slow and firm, and I groan. "I need this. I need to feel in control of something for once in my life."
"Take what you need."
She positions me at her entrance. Holds my eyes. And sinks.
I've never felt anything like this.
She's tight—impossibly tight around my cock—and hot, and so wet I slide into her like I was made to be there. And then her weight settles, and all of her is on me, pressing me into the mattress, and I can barely breathe but I don't want to breathe, I just want this.
"God." She braces her hands on my chest. "You fill me up. You feel so—"
She starts to move.
Rolling her hips. Grinding down. Finding a rhythm that makes her massive breasts sway and her belly ripple. Her head falls back, exposing her throat, and she looks like a goddess—a Venus made flesh, riding me in the dark.
"Touch me," she commands. "I need your hands on me—"
I grab her hips. Pull her down harder. She moans and picks up the pace, bouncing now, the slap of flesh on flesh filling the room. Her breasts shake violently and I sit up, capture one in my mouth, suck on her nipple while she rides me.
"Fuck—yes—just like that—"
She's getting closer. I can feel it—the way her cunt tightens around me, the way her rhythm stutters. I reach between us, find her clit, press down.
She shatters.
Her orgasm tears through her like a storm. She screams again—my name this time—and her whole body convulses. Her pussy clamps down on me so hard it almost hurts, and I can't hold back anymore.
I flip her.
Pin her to the mattress.
And I fuck her like the world is ending.
"Harder—please—"
I've never fucked anyone like this.
I'm pounding into her, the headboard slamming against the wall, her body rippling with every thrust. She's got her legs wrapped around me, her heels digging into my ass, pulling me deeper. Her breasts bounce between us and she's moaning, crying, begging.
"Don't stop—oh God—don't stop—"
I can't stop. Can't slow down. All I know is the grip of her cunt and the sound of her voice and the sight of her beneath me—this beautiful, desperate woman who wanted to feel alive, who chose me to make her feel it.
"I'm close," I warn her.
"Inside me." She pulls me down, whispers in my ear. "Come inside me. I want to feel it. I want—"
I come.
The world whites out. I bury myself to the hilt and empty everything I have into her, and she comes again—I feel it, her cunt milking me, her nails raking my back, her scream muffled against my shoulder.
We collapse.
The city lights paint patterns on the ceiling.
Her head is on my chest. Her body is pressed against mine—all that soft, warm flesh molded to my side. I run my fingers through her hair, and she hums contentedly.
"You missed your last call," she murmurs.
"What?"
"Last call. At the bar. You could have left. Gone to bed. Gotten up for your flight." She traces circles on my chest. "Instead you're here."
"No regrets."
"Really?"
I think about it. About the flight I'm going to miss. The meeting I'm going to blow off. The responsible life waiting for me back home.
"Really."
She laughs softly. Presses a kiss to my chest. "We should sleep. You probably have—"
"Nothing." I pull her closer. "I have nothing more important than this."
"Stranger in a hotel room?"
"Someone who made me feel something." I kiss the top of her head. "I'd say that's pretty important."
She wakes me up at dawn.
The city is pink and gold outside the window. She's on top of me again, already wet, already moving. Half-asleep and desperate.
"One more," she whispers. "Before we have to be real people again. Just—one more."
I give her one more.
I give her everything I have left.
Eight AM.
She's in the shower. I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at my phone. Fourteen missed calls. Nine emails marked urgent. A flight that left an hour ago without me.
I should panic.
I don't.
The bathroom door opens. She emerges in a cloud of steam, wrapped in a hotel robe that barely contains her. Her hair is wet. Her face is scrubbed clean. She looks younger like this. Softer.
"You're still here," she says.
"Where else would I be?"
"On a plane. At your meeting. Back to your real life."
I stand. Walk to her. Put my hands on her hips and pull her against me.
"Maybe this is real life," I say. "Maybe everything else was the dream."
She laughs. But her eyes are bright. Wet.
"You're a romantic," she says. "I wouldn't have guessed."
"Neither would I. But you make me want to try."
She kisses me. Soft and slow and nothing like last night—but just as urgent. Just as necessary.
"I have to make my panel," she says against my lips.
"I know."
"And you have to—what? Book a new flight? Grovel to your boss?"
"Something like that."
She pulls back. Looks at me. Her hand finds my cheek, cups it gently.
"Find me," she says. "After. When the conference is over. When we're real people again. Find me."
"How?"
She grabs the hotel notepad from the nightstand. Scribbles something. Presses it into my hand.
"Grace Holloway. That's my real name, not just the one I gave a stranger in a bar." She smiles. "And that's my number. In case you want to do this again. Properly, I mean. Dinner first. Maybe a conversation that isn't fueled by whiskey."
"I'd like that."
"Good." She kisses me one more time. "Now get out of my room. I have to pretend to care about synergizing deliverables."
I stand in the hallway after she closes the door.
The notepad is in my hand. Her name. Her number. Proof that last night was real.
Behind me, the elevator dings. A maid's cart rattles past. The hotel is waking up, filling with people who slept properly and have flights to catch and meetings to attend.
I look at the paper again.
Find me.
I'm already planning to.
Three weeks later, I do.
Different city. Different bar. Same red dress, straining at the seams.
"You came," she says.
"You asked me to."
"I didn't think you would." She stands from her stool. Walks toward me. All that flesh moving, rippling, demanding attention. "I thought I was a one-night thing. A story you'd tell."
"You're more than that."
"How do you know?"
I take her hand. Pull her close. Feel her body press against mine, all that softness, all that warmth.
"Because I haven't stopped thinking about you since I walked out of room 847." I brush my lips against her ear. "Because I've had one-night things before, and none of them made me miss flights or blow off meetings or fly across the country three weeks later."
"You flew across the country?"
"I told you." I pull back just enough to look at her. "I'd say that's pretty important."
She laughs. That same laugh from the bar—the one that makes everything shake and tremble.
"So what now?"
"Now?" I signal the bartender. "Now we do this properly. Dinner first. Maybe a conversation that isn't fueled by whiskey."
"And after?"
"After?" I grin. "I'm hoping your room is closer again."
She grabs my tie. Pulls me down for a kiss that promises everything last call couldn't deliver.
"It's always closer," she whispers. "When you know where you're going."
And I do.
Finally, I do.