The door clicked shut behind them with a sound far too final for two people who shouldn't be there. The hallway outside was quiet, the kind of hotel silence that existed only for secrets like theirs.
She leaned against the wall, breathing hard, her pulse racing faster than her thoughts. He was close, too close , his tie already loose, his eyes burning with the kind of hunger that ignored consequences.
"You sure you want this?" he asked, voice low and rough.
She swallowed, her throat tight and dry. "If I wanted to be saved," she whispered, "I wouldn't have followed you here."
That made him smile, sinful, knowing. His hand rose to her chin, tilting her face up. "Then let's stop pretending we're innocent."
His mouth crashed against hers, and she didn't hold back. Their kiss was heat and teeth and need, the kind that erased everything but the moment. She fisted the front of his shirt, dragging him with her as she stumbled toward the bed.
Clothes fell like confessions. Laughs broke into moans. Every touch was a declaration of desire they'd both tried to deny for far too long. His hands gripped her hips, desperate, grounding. She arched beneath his mouth, her breath catching with every kiss, every stroke.
"You drive me insane," he murmured against her skin.
"Good," she gasped, fingers clutching his shoulders. "I don't want you thinking straight."
The city lights outside flickered through the curtains, striping their bodies in silver. Every movement made the bed creak a warning neither of them intended to heed.
When his lips found her throat, she gasped again, sharper this time, a sound halfway between pleasure and fear.
"What's wrong?" he asked softly.
She hesitated. Just long enough for the truth to become dangerous. "He'll find out," she breathed.
He stopped. Only for a second. "Then let's make sure it's worth the fallout."
Her laughter cracked, wild, breathless, broken. "God, you're trouble…"
"Not anymore," he disagreed. "Right now, I'm your escape."
Their mouths met again, harder, faster. Sheets twisted around their legs, skin slick with desire. Every sound they made tasted like surrender. She clung to him as if he was the only real thing left in her world.
And for that night… he was.
After the frenzy softened into silence, she lay on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slowing beneath her palm. Sweat cooled. The room stopped spinning. Reality crawled back in like an unwelcome guest.
"You'll hate yourself in the morning," he whispered into her hair.
"Probably," she admitted.
"You'll hate me too."
She lifted her head to look at him, really look, and her voice became a quiet confession:
"I already do."
He brushed his fingers down her spine, a possessive touch disguised as tenderness. "But you'll come back," he said. Not a question. A fact.
She closed her eyes, because the worst part was:
he was right.
They weren't love.
They weren't even lust anymore.
They were a habit, addictive, destructive, and far too familiar to let go.
As dawn crept through the curtains, she gathered her clothes, one trembling piece at a time. Before she left, he caught her wrist, gentle, but firm enough to make her pause.
"No saints here…" he murmured.
She leaned down, brushing one last sinful kiss to his lips.
"…never were."
And then she was gone.
Leaving him with nothing but the taste of her, and the consequences.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the empty space she'd just occupied. The sheets still held her warmth, still smelled faintly of her perfume, temptation dressed as innocence. His hand drifted to the pillow she'd used, fingers brushing over the faint imprint she left behind.
It felt like a bruise on his sanity.
He cursed under his breath and sat up, running a hand through his hair. The room was too quiet now, the air thick with everything unsaid. He reached for his phone, a lifeline and a noose, and stared at the message he hadn't answered earlier.
A single text.
One name on the screen.
One vow he'd just destroyed.
He locked the phone without reading further.
The shower roared to life, drowning out the war in his head. He stepped under the stream, hoping the heat would burn the guilt from his skin. But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was her mouth, her body arching into him like she was made to break him.
He didn't regret it.
That was the real sin.
She lingered outside the hotel, rain misting her face as the early morning traffic rolled by. Her coat wasn't enough to stop the shiver that crawled up her spine, but it wasn't the cold she was trembling from.
Her taxi arrived, but she didn't move. Her fingers tightened around her purse, her breath unsteady.
This wasn't supposed to happen again.
Last time had been an accident. A moment of weakness.
A one-night mistake that should have stayed buried.
But the moment he looked at her tonight, like she was the only thing he wanted, her conviction crumbled into dust.
She slid into the taxi, forcing her gaze away from the hotel, away from the room where she had lost more than just her restraint.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
She gave the address automatically, home.
Back to her life. Back to the role she played so convincingly that sometimes she almost believed it.
But tonight, the facade felt tighter, suffocating.
Her phone vibrated. A message.
She didn't have to look to know who it was from.
She looked anyway.
"Did you get home?"
A harmless question.
A dangerous man.
She typed nothing.
Deleted everything she wanted to say.
Then sent the only thing she could:
"Don't text me again."
She turned the screen face-down on her thigh, swallowing the ache that followed.
This was the last time.
It had to be.
For both of them.
But as the taxi pulled away, she looked at the hotel one more time, the window of that room burning like a brand in her memory.
And for just a second, she smiled.
Because she already knew:
If he asked again,
if he looked at her the way he did tonight…
she would fall all over.
Some addictions don't end.
They wait.
In the dark.
Behind closed doors.
In hotel rooms where the truth tastes like sin.
And theirs?
Was only getting started.