Room Service
"She's the night concierge at a boutique hotel. He's a guest who can't sleep. When she offers to personally deliver whatever he needs, he discovers the hotel has amenities not listed on the website."
The lobby was empty at 2 AM.
Just me and the woman behind the desk. She was typing something, glasses perched on her nose, dark hair piled on her head. When I approached, she looked up and smiled.
"Can't sleep, Mr. Cole?"
I'd checked in six hours ago. She'd remembered my name.
"Jet lag. Just got in from Tokyo."
"That's a rough adjustment." She stood, and I saw her properly for the first time. She was maybe fifty, wearing the hotel's standard uniform—black suit, white blouse—but on her, it looked different.
Her hips strained the fabric of her slacks. Her breasts pushed against her blouse. She had curves that didn't belong behind a desk—curves that belonged in a painting.
"I'm Miranda," she said. "Night concierge. Is there anything I can get you?"
"I don't know. What's available?"
"At this hour?" She smiled—something private in it. "Almost anything."
She brought me tea in the library.
The hotel was boutique—only thirty rooms, all suites. The library was a small room with leather chairs and old books. I was the only guest awake.
"Chamomile," she said, setting the tray down. "Helps with sleep."
"Thank you."
She didn't leave. She sat in the chair across from mine.
"First time in the city?"
"First time in years. Used to live here."
"And now?"
"Now I live everywhere. And nowhere." I took a sip. "Work has me traveling constantly."
"That sounds lonely."
"It is." I looked at her. Really looked. "You work nights. That must be lonely too."
"It can be." She crossed her legs, and I noticed how thick her thighs were. How her slacks stretched to accommodate them. "But I prefer it. The guests are different at night. Quieter. More honest."
"More honest how?"
"During the day, everyone pretends. They're fine, they're great, everything is wonderful." She leaned forward. "At night, the masks come off. People tell me things they'd never say in sunlight."
"What kinds of things?"
"All kinds." Her eyes held mine. "What they're running from. What they're looking for. What they really want."
"And what do they really want?"
"Connection, mostly." She stood. Walked toward me. "Human touch. Someone who sees them."
"And do you give them that?"
She stopped in front of my chair. Looking down at me.
"Only the ones I want to."
"This is probably against hotel policy," I said as she straddled me in the library chair.
"Definitely against hotel policy." She unbuttoned her blouse. "I've worked here twelve years. Never broken a rule."
"Why now?"
"Because you looked at me like I was a woman, not furniture." She pulled the blouse off. Black bra underneath, straining to contain her. "Do you know how rare that is? How invisible I am to most guests?"
"I can't imagine anyone not seeing you."
"Then you'd be surprised." She unhooked her bra. Her breasts fell free—heavy, full, with dark nipples hardening in the cool air. "Touch me."
I cupped her breasts. Squeezed. She moaned, grinding against me.
"The library has cameras," I said.
"Not in this corner." She reached for my belt. "I know every blind spot in this hotel."
She was wet before I touched her.
I slid my hand into her slacks and found her soaked. She gasped as my fingers entered her.
"Yes—" She rocked against my hand. "It's been so long—so fucking long—"
I worked her until she came on my fingers, biting her lip to stay quiet. Then she pulled my cock free and sank onto it.
"Oh god," she breathed. "Oh god, you're perfect—"
She rode me in the library chair. Her thick body bouncing. Her breasts swaying in my face. I grabbed her ass—each cheek overflowing my hands—and thrust up into her.
"Yes—yes—don't stop—"
She came again. Then again. Then I came inside her, and she collapsed against my chest, panting.
"That was..." she started.
"Room service?"
She laughed. "Something like that."
I stayed three more nights.
Each night, around 2 AM, I came to the lobby. Each night, Miranda led me somewhere new. The library. The rooftop garden. Once, the honeymoon suite that was between guests.
"You're leaving tomorrow," she said the last night, lying beside me in a bed that cost more per night than my first apartment.
"I am."
"Will you come back?"
"I always come back to this city." I pulled her closer. "Now I have a better reason."
"I'm just a concierge."
"You're more than that." I kissed her. "You're the first person who's made me want to stop traveling."
"Don't stop for me."
"What if I want to?"
She was quiet. Then she smiled.
"The penthouse is available for long-term rental."
"Is that a business suggestion?"
"It's whatever you want it to be."
I rented the penthouse.
Miranda still works the night shift. But now, when the lobby empties, she comes upstairs.
The hotel manager asked once why I never check out.
"The service," I told him. "It's exceptional."
He beamed with pride.
If only he knew.