It started with a dare.
A red envelope slid across the bar, sealed with wax and mischief. “Midnight. Room 713. No names.” That was all it said. She traced the script with trembling fingers.
Maya wasn’t the type to follow strangers into hotels. But something about him — the way he watched her from across the room, drink untouched, eyes burning like secrets — made her legs move before her mind caught up.
She knocked once. The door opened slowly.
Dim lights. Music low and sultry. He stood there, shirt undone, tie loose around his neck. No words — just heat.
He offered her champagne. She took it. His fingers brushed hers, deliberate. She didn’t pull away.
“You came,” he said, voice like velvet and sin.
“I shouldn’t have,” she whispered.
“But you wanted to.”
She nodded.
Then he kissed her.
Not soft. Not sweet. Like a question and a promise all at once. Her back hit the wall, her heart forgot how to beat, and all the rules she lived by unraveled with every touch.
Buttons. Zippers. Gasps.
He whispered things in her ear that made her knees weak. And she let him.
Because for one night…
She didn’t want to be good.
