Author's Note:
Hello! Enjoy this short stroke piece—it helped break my Writer's Block, so now other chapters you've been waiting on from me will be coming sooner rather than later. :)
Thank you to AwkwardMD and karaline for giving this story a look before I posted. Ya'll are the best!
*****
The bar area still had power, and lights glinted off the back of the big mirror through bottles of liquor in various states of fullness. The cooling fan on a vending machine in the hallway hummed away in the almost-silence. Muffled, intermittent banging came from somewhere further back in the warren of rentable space. My heels sank just a little into the busily-patterned carpet as I meandered.
This floor of the hotel was under partial renovation. There were so many floors, the management team I guess had decided there would be acceptable profit loss in closing off just this one to guests, rather than suffer negative reviews about the noise and dust and inconvenience.
It was Tuesday, my second day at work, and an employee breakroom in the basement level full of unfamiliar and indifferent faces had me wandering on my extended lunch. They wanted my shift to go from two in the afternoon to midnight, but didn't want to pay out overtime, so here I was, cut loose for two hours with time to kill.
The banging turned into something grating and destructive. A saw, perhaps. I hopped up onto one of the empty barstools and pulled off a shoe to adjust the toe of a stocking that had slid around and started bothering. Blue and purple neon from over the bar oozed in reflection over the black patent as I hitched the pump off and then back on. Why the female employees couldn't wear flats when we stood behind a desk all day was beyond me. And the need for hose. Like it was the fucking 50s.
I sat there for a time, idling. Most of the booths along the wall opposite the bar had spattered drop-cloths over them, but I couldn't tell if the wall behind had just been painted or was about to be.
Gawd. I should have brought something to read. Didn't think about it. I'd been running late again, because—fuck this city—I still didn't know where everything was and underestimated the time it would take me to get to the train, and blah, blah, blah. I'd get it figured out, just hopefully before someone wrote me up.
A clock above an exit on the opposite side of the bar, heading into yet another hall, indicated I had an hour and half left. Balls. It wasn't like I had a car. Or money. Couldn't go anywhere on my lunch yet.
I slid off the stool and tugged my skirt back into place. Another ancient dress code absurdity. Took my time-wasting ass on down the clock's hall.
This avenue in the hotel's warren didn't lead to more rooms. After a ninety-degree left turn, it opened into a hub-like lobby connecting some of the floor's amenities. Plexiglass showed me gym equipment in one space, darkened computer desks of what might be a business center in another. A freestanding kiosk shrouded in something like a barbeque cover that was maybe where someone like me would have to stand and vend snacks or who-knew-what.
This was a central part of the tower, with no windows to the outside, but there was light from a movie poster-sized digital sign, still powered up, for whatever reason, and rotating through its programmed ads for local tourism, airlines, banks, etc.
The sawing fired up again, much closer, nearly vibrating the air in a sort of deep, dental grinding, and I turned my head toward it. The sound echoed in a weird way in the vacant space. Best I could tell it was coming from the other side of a wall on which there was a door bearing a sign that named it 'Conference Room C'.
Then the wall fell into the lobby.
I made an embarrassing little yip-gasp and hopped back a step. Which turned into a stumble for a second, as high heels and hopping don't pair well.
Dust puffed up in a thin cloud around the whump of drywall onto carpet. I hadn't even seen the square line of the seam where the saw had already done most of its work.
I sure as fuck
did
see the filthy hulk of man leaning against the edge of the new hole, corded tool in hand, staring back at a hotel employee who shouldn't have been on this floor.
There was a window in whatever room was at his back, and afternoon light outlined shoulders and arms in a halo, in whorls of settling dust. This guy looked like ten miles of rough pavement. The skin of his face pocked above a work-smeared black t-shirt and jeans, and pale eyes squinting back at me with just a hint. A hint of something.
I tell you, I never got wet faster in my life.
Like the construction worker stereotype in front of me had taken possession of my normal introvert self, I eyed the man down and up in the rudest possible way.
"Well, hel
lo
," I said, all inhibition currently hanging out with the rest of the people who would usually be on this floor.
A grin split his face and something glinted, like one of his teeth might have been gold. He ducked his forehead to wipe sweat on his shirtsleeve. The smile was still there when he came up.
"Hello, sweetheart," he said. "What are you doing up here?"
That accent. Jesus Backflipping Christ. Like syrup and gravel. Possibly London. I might as well have thrown my underwear at him right then.
Every response I could think of for why I was on that floor was lame. What came out of my mouth was even more lame.
"Can I, uh ... can I get you anything?"
He eye-fucked me in a challenging mirror to what I'd already done. "I'm thirsty," he said, and that drawl was enough to end me.
Aren't we all, motherfucker.
Shit
.
What the fuck could I say to that? Nothing, that's what. I turned on a mute heel and rounded the corners back past the bar. To the vending machine. It had bottled water, but I didn't have any cash. The bar had glasses and a tap, though.
I came back like some other version of me was at the controls. A version where my cunt pushed the buttons and set the agenda. Gooseflesh prickled my thighs and lower back.
He was sitting on the felled section of wall now, elbows on knees, watching my return with something like mischievous disbelief on his face. I handed over the full glass, no ice, but already filmed with sweat from the cold water. His fingers touched mine, a jolt to my pulse, as he took it. Throat moved when he drank, the whole thing in one impressive go.
I folded to sit next to him on the rubble, freak and sudden lust relegating Introvert Me once again to the back seat. My shins and ankles slanted together to one side, like some kind of lady I currently wasn't.
He set down the glass on the carpet and wiped his chin with the back of a hand. Turned his face to me, wrist dangling over the adjacent knee between us.
"You shouldn't be up here all alone."
The twitch of a smile made it not quite a threat, but it was damn sure close enough. Heat from his shoulder, inches away, seeped onto mine. My pussy throbbed and made decisions. Twisted my upper body to face him and lean on a hand behind me on the drywall.
"I'm not," I said, and his grin curled and the gap closed and his tongue was in my mouth.
From how little contact could a person come? I didn't, but god
damn
.
Salt was on his upper lip, and I let everything happen. Kissing back, a goddamn stranger, and his opposite hand came up to grip the nape of my neck while he leaned on his other arm like I did.
I was a greedy whore and put a palm on his chest to enjoy the flat of muscle. Moaned into his mouth when he shifted closer so our hips touched. My ankles splayed for balance as I tried to keep myself upright.
There was no stopping. The grip on my neck left for a chance to find and squeeze a breast through my blouse, dirty palm griming white silk while his teeth moved to my jaw. Beneath my ear.
"
Ffuck
..."
My eyes rolled back. He took my wrist. Slid my touch toward his belt. Lower, and cupped my fingers around what was hard beneath his fly.
"This what you want, love?" The words steamed into my pores; he was as much a slave to it as I was.
"Oh, god." I took hold on my own and tugged the cock in my direction.
It wasn't a 'yes' or a 'no', really, but I wasn't operating within any simple binaries like that. It was a one-way street. A tunnel with one end.
Need.
Fuck.
Now.
One of my shoes fell off as the mass of him loomed and we sank back onto the hard slab of wall. The little plastic sliders on my bra straps bit into my shoulderblades, and I felt a denim-clad thigh slide over mine.
Now he left off his nipping and sucking to look me over again. A package about to be torn into. A thing he was about to despoil. Cream pearled from inside me.
Four fingers wedged down into the neck of my blouse. Buttons rolled away and clacked onto the sheetrock, the halves of fabric parting like butter under a knife. My ribs rose and fell. He had one of my bra cups out of the way and I made a chirp of surprise when his head ducked, and my nipple went between his teeth.
I arched—arched!—into the mauling. My fingers clutched at the back of his shirt. I probably humped at his hip in the delirium. God almighty, I was supposed to be on a
lunch break
.
But he was up and away, too far gone to bother with the other tit. Cool air kissed the wet flesh where mouth had been, chilling a light sting from the rasp of stubble.
He was sitting back, his free hand rucking my black pencil skirt higher on my thighs. His gaze followed, and so did a groan.
"Fuck
me
."
My face got hot when his knuckles brushed the top of a nude-colored stocking. Stretchy lace, the kind with the rubbery strip inside to hold the nylon up without straps. I honest-to-God shivered when he traced his touch down the inside of my leg.
I was letting this happen. I was fucking insane.
He settled in for another taste of my mouth and those same dirty fingers burrowed past the top of my panties. Past the soft strip of fur and into the sloppy mess I was hiding. A long, low noise came from my throat. To have this stranger wallow in something so intimate, something that, for whatever reason, normally cost me an undue level of humiliation to have anyone see. I tilted into his hand and bit his lower lip.
The man pulled back, palm on my mound, fingertips teasing my hole, to cock his head. Search my face.
"Are you taking the piss?" he said, eyes narrowing. "The lads send you up here?"
He was speaking English, but I was still lost.
"The ... lads?"
I trailed my touch down his arm, brows knit in question.
"Fuck it," he said. "My lucky day, then."
But I didn't get what I wanted. His fingers didn't push inside me, not just then. He was tugging elastic over my hips, damp lace from between my legs and out from under my ass. He even bent to have at least one side all the way off over my shoeless foot, before rising to top me again, this time both legs parting my knees. Knuckles turning this way and that to work his fly open.
I was lightheaded. The raw edge of the drywall bit a line in my ass. A man I didn't know hovering over a state of
déshabillé
he'd already wrought, and getting ready to ruin me some more.
Again, he dragged my hand to his cock. This time bare and scalding. Hard as fucking marble. Tip leaking. I couldn't make my thumb touch my fingers around it.
"You want this, sweetheart?"
