The cognac was cheap, the hotel room cheaper, but her laugh was a salve I’d have paid my last dime to hear. It was a low, throaty sound that seemed to vibrate right through the thin wall at my back. I watched her, this vision of impossible grace folded into a rickety chair. A shaft of neon light from the boulevard below cut across her, highlighting the twin mounds of her firm breasts—an advertisement for desire.

She ran a hand through the cascade of her hair, a river of spun wheat and honey, and it glistened like silk against the cheap cotton of her robe. This, I thought, is poetry written on skin with the ink of desire.

“You’re staring, poet,” she said, her voice holding a knowing smile. She didn’t look at me, just traced the rim of her glass. “Composing another forgettable verse of desire that ends in regret?”

“A line or two,” I admitted, my own voice rough, unused. “Something about a woman who wears the night like a favorite dress.”

She finally turned, and her eyes were deep pools of mystery that lured me in with no escape. “And what does this woman do in her favorite dress?”

“She takes it off.”

Her laugh was both mocking and seductive, catching me by surprise. She uncurled from the chair with a predator’s languid grace, the robe parting to reveal a slice of toned stomach, the elegant ladder of her ribs. She was a slim, trim thing, all willowy lines and sharp angles that promised a specific, devastating kind of pleasure.

She came to me slowly but without hesitation, allowing me to drink her beauty in and savor each display of skin. She tilted her head, looking quizzically at me as if making up her mind. Placing her glass on the windowsill, she took mine from my hand. Her slender fingers brushed mine, and I could feel her sultry electricity seep into me. Then her hands were on my chest, pushing me back until the backs of my knees hit the bed and I sat down awkwardly.

She stood between my spread legs. The neon light from the window behind her cast a radiant halo, transforming her into a blonde goddess in a tawdry temple. She cupped my face, her thumbs stroking my jaw. “Let me be the memory you can’t forget,” she whispered. “The one that inspires you when you are alone and depraved.”

And then her mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claim. Her tongue swept into my mouth, tasting of bitter cognac and sweet, dark desire. I groaned, my hands finding her hips, pulling her flesh against me. I could feel the smoothness of her pelvis, her incredible warmth through the thin robe. My fingers slid up her sides and then to the front to cup her firm breasts in my hands, feeling the nipples harden against my hands. An approving groan came from her lips.

She broke the kiss, and she seemed to seethe with passion as she squirmed. “Your words lack emotion,” she breathed, her hands sliding down my chest, my stomach. “Show me the translation.”

Her fingers found the buckle of my belt. The clink of the metal buckle caused my breath to catch. I could only watch, mesmerized, as she worked the leather free, her focus absolute. She popped the button of my jeans and in a slow, deliberate motion she lowered the zipper, confirming my desire where my words fell short.

She pushed me back onto the squeaky bed and slid down my body, her hair trailing over my stomach and then hips, a thousand tiny, whispering touches that made me shudder. She yanked my jeans and briefs down my thighs in one efficient, resolute motion, and the cool air of the room hit my aching cock. I was already fully hard, straining, and her eyes darkened with pure hunger.

She didn’t tease. She wrapped her slender fingers around my base, and her grip was firm, knowing. She held my gaze as she leaned down, her lips parting.

The first touch of her mouth was a revelation - hot, wet and perfect. She took me in, not all at once, but with a slow, sinking descent that had my head thrashing back against the pillow. A low, guttural moan emerged from my throat. Her tongue moved against the sensitive underside, a flat, relentless pressure, and then she began to move.

Her head bobbed, a smooth, relentless rhythm, her hair falling around her face like a golden curtain, enclosing us in our own world of scent, sensation and pleasure. I could hear the soft, wet sounds she made, could feel the incredible suction, the way her throat fluttered as she took me deeper. My hands gripped the bedspread in a fist as I moaned. God, Oh God.

She was an artist, a virtuoso of my needs. One of her hands cupped and gently squeezed my balls, while the other reached between my legs, a finger tracing a tantalizing line further back. My hips jerked off the bed, a helpless, involuntary thrust.

She pulled off with a soft, wet pop, her lips glistening. She fixed me with her glistening eyes. “I want you inside me,” she panted, her voice ragged. “Now.”

In a fluid motion, she shrugged the robe from her shoulders the way a fallen angel would shed tarnished wings. She was revealed, naked and glorious in the neon glow. Her breasts were small, high, with nipples drawn tight into red peaks. Her stomach was a flat plane leading down to a neat shaved thatch of blonde curls in a thin band pointing the way to her own passion. She was every line of the poem I’d tried to write, and she was so much more.

She climbed onto the bed, straddling my hips, her heat against my loins inflaming me even more. She reached between us, guiding me to her entrance. I could feel how wet she was, the slickness coating my tip. She held my gaze, both a challenge and a plea in one. I reached for her breasts and squeezed their firmness and rubbed her nipples as she sank down, letting out an almost silent moan.

It was a slow, exquisite torture. The searing, wet heat as she sheathed me completely, taking in every inch until our bodies were flush. She threw her head back, a silent cry on her lips, her long throat arched. Her inner muscles clenched around me, a tight, pulsing fist of pleasure, and I closed my eyes reveling in the pleasure.

She began to move, a slow, rolling grind of her hips. Her hands braced on my chest, her nails digging in just enough to sting. Up and down, a tortuously slow rhythm, each movement dragging a moan from both of us. I gripped her hips, my fingers pressing into the firm muscle there, helping her set a punishing, desperate pace.

Faster. Harder. The bed began to squeak and to knock a steady beat against the wall. Her hair was a wild halo around her face, stuck to her damp skin. The room filled with the sounds of our bodies meeting, our ragged breaths, my choked curses, her high, keening cries.

I could feel the coil of my orgasm tightening, a white-hot knot in my gut. “I’m close,” I gritted out, my voice strangled. My muscles tensed, my skin pebbling with the imminent shock of release.

“Look at me,” she demanded, her own movements becoming frantic, erratic.

I forced my eyes open. She was watching me, her expression one of raw, unravelling ecstasy. It was that look, that complete and total surrender to the feeling, that undid me completely. My release ripped through me, a blinding, deafening wave. I cried out, my body thrusting, pumping into her as I emptied myself.

The pulses seemed to go on forever, each one milking a shudder from my entire being. Through the haze, I felt her own climax hit. She clenched around me—once, twice—a fierce, rhythmic pulse. A ragged howl tore from her as she collapsed onto my chest, her body shuddering through the last waves. The world contracted to the heat of our joined skin, the frantic silence after the storm.

We lay tangled and slick, the only sound our slowing breaths. The neon sign outside blinked its indifferent rhythm, painting a shifting stripe of color across her back.

After a long moment, she lifted her head. Her hair traced my jaw. A smile bloomed on her lips—satiated, yet sharp with a lingering hunger.

“Now,” she whispered, her voice husky with spent passion and fresh promise. “Write about that.”