The soft glow of her laptop screen casts a warm light across Elizabeth’s face as she sinks into the plush chair in her resort suite, the silk robe clinging to her curves like a second skin. The fabric whispers against her ivory thighs as she crosses her legs, the cool air conditioning brushing over the exposed skin where the robe parts just above her knees. Her fingers hover over the keyboard, the hum of the resort’s distant activity—laughter from the pool, the clink of glasses at the bar—fading into a dull murmur behind the closed balcony doors. She exhales slowly, the weight of the day’s distractions still lingering in her mind: the unfinished emails, the half-packed suitcase, the way Peter’s voice had sent an unexpected shiver down her spine earlier.
She shouldn’t be thinking about him, not like this.
A sharp chime cuts through her thoughts—the notification from the call platform, a message blinking in the corner of the screen. Her green eyes flick toward it, curiosity piqued. PeterJ87. Her breath catches. She knows that handle. Knows the voice behind it, the way it deepens when he’s turned on, the way it had sounded just hours ago in the lobby, rough with something unspoken.
She clicks.
"Roleplay?"
The message is short, direct. No preamble, no small talk. Just that single word, followed by a smirking emoji that makes her lips twitch. She leans back, the chair creaking softly beneath her, and bites her lower lip. The silk robe shifts, the fabric sliding against her nipples, already tightening under the thin layer of satin. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. But the memory of his hands—how they’d looked earlier, strong and capable as he’d signed the resort ledger—flashes through her mind, and her thighs press together involuntarily.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she types:
"Depends. What’s the scenario?"
The reply is instant, as if he’s been waiting.
"Resort bar. You’re a stranger. I’m the guy who’s been watching you all night."
A laugh bubbles up in her throat, low and throaty. Oh, he’s good. She can already hear the gravel in his voice, the way he’d say it, slow, like he’s savoring the words. Her pussy clenches, a traitorous pulse of heat between her legs. She shifts in the chair, the silk robe riding up just enough to tease the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
"And what happens when this ‘stranger’ approaches me?" she types, her fingers moving faster now, the game already pulling her under.
"That’s up to you, sweetheart. But I guarantee you’ll like it."
She exhales sharply, her breath fogging the screen for a second before she wipes it away with the pad of her thumb. The cursor blinks, taunting her. She could log off. She could shut the laptop, pour herself a glass of wine, and pretend this never happened. But the thought of his voice in her ear, the way it had sounded earlier—rough, hungry—makes her nipples ache.
She hits Accept Call.
The line connects with a soft click, and then his voice is there, wrapping around her like a physical touch. "You’re late." His tone is low, smoky, the kind of voice that belongs in a dimly lit bar with jazz playing in the background. She can practically see him—leaning against the polished mahogany, a glass of bourbon in hand, his dark eyes tracking her every move.
Elizabeth smirks, leaning back further, letting the robe fall open just enough to tease. "Maybe I wanted to make you wait."
A chuckle, deep and knowing. "Oh, you’ve been making me wait for months, Elizabeth." The way he says her name—like it’s a sin, like it’s a promise—sends a jolt straight to her clit. She shifts again, her free hand drifting down, fingers tracing idle patterns over the silk covering her stomach.
"Then you should know by now I’m worth it." Her voice is smooth, confident, but there’s an edge to it, a breathlessness she can’t quite hide. She licks her lips, imagining the way his gaze would darken if he could see her now—spread out in this chair, her skin flushed, her body already responding to the sound of him.
"Prove it." His voice drops an octave, rougher now. "Meet me at the bar. Black dress. Red lips. And don’t keep me waiting this time."
She swallows, her pulse thrumming in her throat. The roleplay is intoxicating, the line between fantasy and reality already blurring. "I’ll be there," she purrs, and the words feel like a spark, igniting something deep in her belly.
The call ends with a soft click, leaving her breathless, her skin too hot under the silk. She stands abruptly, the robe slipping off one shoulder, the cool air kissing her bare skin. Her reflection in the floor-length mirror catches her eye—ivory curves, black hair tumbling over her shoulders, green eyes bright with anticipation. She looks good. And she’s going to look even better in that black dress.
The resort bar is exactly how she imagined it—dim lighting, the clink of ice in glasses, the low hum of conversation punctuated by the occasional laugh. She steps inside, the air-conditioned breeze raising goosebumps on her exposed arms, her black dress hugging every curve, the neckline dipping just low enough to tease. Her red lips part as she scans the room, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor.
And then she sees him.
Peter is exactly where he said he’d be, leaning against the bar, one elbow propped on the counter, a glass of bourbon in hand. He’s dressed in dark slacks and a fitted button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with hair, veins tracing paths beneath his skin. His gaze is fixed on the entrance, and when it lands on her, something shifts in his expression—recognition, heat, a flicker of hunger.
Elizabeth’s breath catches. For a second, it’s like the roleplay doesn’t matter. Like the past few months of voice calls and fantasies have led to this—the way his eyes darken as they rake over her, the way his fingers tighten around the glass.
She strides toward him, hips swaying with deliberate confidence, the dress clinging to her ass with every step. The bartender slides a glass toward her as she approaches, and she doesn’t even have to ask—bourbon, neat. She takes it, the amber liquid catching the light as she brings it to her lips, her gaze locked on Peter over the rim.
"Elizabeth?" His voice is rough, almost disbelieving, like he can’t quite reconcile the woman in front of him with the voice he’s spent months fantasizing about.
She lowers the glass, her lips curling into a smirk. "Peter." Her voice is smooth, but there’s an edge to it—something electric, something real. She steps closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around her, woodsy and dark, like the first sip of whiskey.
He doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds her waist, pulling her against him, and then his mouth is on hers, hot and demanding. The glass slips from her fingers, forgotten, as she melts into him, her hands fisting in his shirt. His tongue parts her lips, stroking against hers, and she moans into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the crush of their kiss. He tastes like bourbon and sin, and she can’t get enough.
The bar, the other patrons, the world—it all fades away until there’s nothing but the heat of his body against hers, the way his hands grip her hips, pulling her flush against the rugged ridge of his cock straining against his slacks. She rocks against him instinctively, a whimper escaping her throat when his teeth graze her lower lip.
"Not here," she gasps, breaking the kiss just enough to speak, her voice trembling. But her body betrays her, arching into him, her nipples tight against the fabric of her dress.
Peter’s hands slide down, gripping her ass, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp. "Then where?" His voice is a growl, his breath hot against her ear. "Your room? Mine?"
She shivers, her mind racing. The elevator. The thought hits her like a spark. "Elevator." The word is out before she can stop it, breathless and desperate.
His grip tightens, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs as he pulls her toward the bank of elevators at the far end of the bar. The doors slide open with a ding, and he all but shoves her inside, his body crowding hers as the doors close, sealing them in.
The second they’re alone, his mouth is on hers again, his hands roaming over her breasts, down her waist, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She moans, her back hitting the elevator wall as he presses against her, his thigh forcing its way between hers. The dress rides up, the cool metal of the elevator wall biting into her bare skin, and she loves it—the contrast of his heat and the chill, the way his fingers dig into her flesh like he’s trying to memorize the shape of her.
"Fuck, you feel good," he groans against her neck, his lips trailing down to the hollow of her throat. His teeth graze her pulse point, and she whimpers, her head falling back against the wall. His hands slide up her thighs, pushing the dress higher, higher, until his fingers find the lace edge of her panties.
"Already wet for me," he murmurs, his thumb pressing against the damp fabric, right over her clit. She jerks, a broken sound escaping her as he rubs slow, deliberate circles, the lace rough against her sensitive flesh. "Such a greedy girl."
"Peter—" His name is a plea, a warning, but he doesn’t stop. His fingers hook under the lace, pulling it aside, and then he’s touching her—no barrier, just his calloused fingertips sliding through her slick folds, teasing her entrance.
"You like that?" His voice is a dark purr, his breath hot against her ear. "You like me fingering your tight little pussy in the elevator where anyone could walk in?"
She should stop him. Elizabeth thinks she should push him away, demand they wait until they’re somewhere private. But the words die in her throat as he curls his fingers inside her, his thumb pressing down on her clit, and all she can do is whimper, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Answer me." His command is rough, his fingers stilling just enough to make her whine.
"Yes," she gasps. "Fuck, yes."
His chuckle is dark, triumphant, and then his fingers are moving again, fucking her slow and deep, his thumb working her clit in tight circles. The elevator dings, the doors sliding open to reveal an empty hallway, and he doesn’t even hesitate—he lifts her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he strides out, his fingers never leaving her pussy.
"Which room?" he demands, his voice strained.
She barely manages to point toward her door before his mouth crashes back onto hers, his tongue fucking her mouth in the same rhythm as his fingers fuck her pussy. She fumbles with the keycard, her hands shaking, but he takes it from her, swiping it against the reader with a sharp beep. The door swings open, and he kicks it shut behind them, pressing her against the wall just inside the entryway.
"Bed. Now." His voice is a growl, his fingers slipping from her pussy just long enough to spin her around, his hand flat between her shoulder blades as he pushes her toward the bed.
She stumbles, catching herself on the mattress, her dress riding up to expose her ass, the lace of her panties still damp, still clinging to her. She hears the rustle of fabric, the sharp inhale of his breath, and then his hands are on her again, gripping her hips, pulling her back against him.
"You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he admits, his voice raw, his fingers digging into her flesh. And then he’s kneeling behind her, his breath hot against the back of her thighs as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her panties, dragging them down her legs.
She steps out of them, her breath coming in sharp gasps as his hands slide up the backs of her thighs, his thumbs parting her, exposing her to the cool air. "Peter."
"Shh." His voice is a dark promise, and then his mouth is on her.
She cries out, her fingers tangling in the bedsheets as his tongue drags through her folds, slow and deliberate. He groans against her, the vibration making her hips jerk, and then his lips seal around her clit, sucking hard. Her legs tremble, her knees nearly giving out as his fingers join his mouth, two thick digits pressing inside her, curling against that spot that makes her see stars.
"Fuck!" The word is torn from her throat as his tongue flicks over her clit, his fingers fucking her deep and slow, his free hand gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks. "Peter, please!"
"You taste so fucking good," he growls against her, his breath hot, his tongue never stopping. He adds a third finger, stretching her, and she whines, her body tightening, coiling…
"Come for me, Elizabeth." His command is rough, his fingers pounding into her now, his mouth sealing over her clit, and she shatters.
Her orgasm rips through her, her back arching, a scream tearing from her throat as her pussy clenches around his fingers, her juices dripping down his chin. He doesn’t stop, licking and sucking her through it, drawing out every last tremor until she’s boneless, panting, her body spent.
She collapses onto the bed, her dress still hitched up around her waist, her skin slick with sweat. Peter crawls over her, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with hunger. She reaches for him, her hands gripping his shirt, pulling him down for a kiss. She can taste herself on his tongue, and it sends another pulse of heat through her, her pussy throbbing.
"Your turn," she whispers against his lips, her voice hoarse, her fingers already working at his belt.
But then…
The call ends.
The sudden silence is jarring, the fantasy dissolving like smoke. Elizabeth blinks, her breath still ragged, her body still humming with the ghost of her orgasm. The room is dark, with only the glow of her laptop screen for light, the silk robe still tangled around her legs.
And then…
"Elizabeth."
His voice is different now. Not the rough, hungry tone from the roleplay. This is real. This is him.
"I’m outside your door."
Her blood runs cold.
A knock echoes through the suite—sharp, insistent.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
She freezes, her heart hammering against her ribs, her pussy still throbbing, her lips still swollen from phantom kisses. The line between fantasy and reality blurs, her mind racing.
Did she give him her room number?
Did she want this?
The knock comes again.
And Elizabeth doesn’t move.
