Last night of the conference

The last night always felt different.

You'd survived the keynote—Dr. Patterson's forty-five minute odyssey through "leveraging synergistic paradigms" that had nearly induced a coma. You'd endured the breakout sessions, the networking mixers where everyone pretended to care about each other's business cards, the dinner where Mara had sat across from you making eyes while you tried to focus on your salmon.

Tomorrow morning, you'd both fly home. Back to the office. Back to adjacent desks and the careful dance you'd been doing for two years, where everything stayed professional and safe and uncomplicated.

Tonight was the last night of this strange little bubble. The Rosewood Hotel with its pink lighting and champagne-drunk bachelorettes, Sienna's knowing smiles at the front desk, Mara in the room right next door.

The shower was too hot, but you stayed in anyway, letting the water beat against your shoulders, washing away the conference center's recycled air and the weight of almosts and what-ifs. Steam filled the bathroom until you could barely see, until the mirror was completely fogged and the air was thick and warm.

When you finally stepped out, skin flushed pink from the heat, you wrapped the towel around your waist and wiped condensation from the mirror with your forearm.

Your reflection stared back—hair dark and dripping, water still beading on your chest and shoulders, towel slung low on your hips.

A knock at the door.

You glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 9:47 PM.

Probably housekeeping, or maybe they were delivering those extra towels you'd requested. You padded across the carpet, leaving damp footprints, and pulled open the door without thinking.

Mara stood in the hallway.

Your brain stuttered.

She'd changed since dinner. The professional armor was completely gone—no blazer, no heels, no carefully applied makeup. Instead she wore soft gray cotton shorts that ended high on her thighs and a loose black tank top that slipped off one shoulder. Her hair fell in dark waves past her shoulders, still slightly damp like she'd showered too. Her feet were bare.

She looked like she'd just rolled out of bed. Or was planning to roll into one.

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

"Hey," she said, and her voice was lower than usual, softer. Her eyes traveled down your bare chest with deliberate slowness—tracing water droplets as they slid down your sternum, following the line of the towel where it hung on your hips.

You suddenly became very aware that you were mostly naked. That you were still wet. That her gaze was doing things to your body that the towel was not going to hide for much longer.

"Uh, hi," you managed.

Her eyes came back up to meet yours, and she leaned against the doorframe with studied casualness, head tilted, a small smile playing at her lips.

"You look good in a towel," she said.

Heat flooded through you—part embarrassment, part something else entirely. "Oh. Uh, thanks?"

"I'm serious." She pushed off the doorframe and took a step closer, into your doorway now, close enough that you could smell her shampoo—something clean and faintly floral. Her eyes dropped again, lingering on your chest, your shoulders, the way water was still sliding down your skin. "You should wear them more often."

Your heart was hammering. You gripped the towel a little tighter, hyperaware of how little fabric separated you from complete exposure. "Ha, yeah, I'll add it to my work wardrobe. Business casual: slacks and a towel."

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. There was something else in her expression now—something searching, almost **** beneath the playfulness.

"I meant it," she said, voice dropping even lower. "You look really good."

The way she said it made your breath catch. This wasn't casual teasing. This was something else entirely.

And your body was responding. You felt it—that telltale stirring, blood rushing south, the towel suddenly feeling much thinner than it had a moment ago. You shifted your weight, trying to think about anything else, but Mara was right there, looking at you like that, and—

"Well, uh, thanks," you said, fighting to keep your voice steady. "You look great too. Always do."

Her eyes flicked down again—and this time they caught on the growing evidence of exactly what her presence was doing to you. The towel was tenting slightly, unmistakably, and there was absolutely no way she didn't notice.

Her lips parted. Just slightly.

Then she bit her lower lip, and her eyes came back up to yours with heat in them, something dark and wanting that made your cock twitch against the towel.

She waited.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and electric. She was standing in your doorway, barefoot and beautiful, looking at you like she wanted to devour you, and you were half-hard in a towel that was barely staying up.

She was waiting for you to say something. Do something.

Ask her to come in.

Pull her inside.

Anything.

"So, um," you said, grinning like an absolute idiot, "what's up?"

Something flickered across her face—disappointment, maybe, or resignation.

"I was just..." She exhaled, and when she spoke again her voice was carefully neutral. "I'm gonna grab a drink downstairs. At the bar." She paused, eyes searching yours one more time. "Alone."

The way she emphasized that last word should have been a klaxon. Should have been neon signs and fireworks and a voice from heaven saying she wants you to come with her, you absolute moron.

But you just stood there, still riding the high of her compliments, still trying to will your erection away, completely and utterly oblivious.

"Oh, cool! Have fun," you said brightly.

She stared at you.

Just stared, for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Then she shook her head—so slightly you almost missed it—and turned toward the elevator.

"See you tomorrow," she said quietly, not looking back.

"Yeah! Bright and early!" you called after her.

You watched her walk away, admiring the way those shorts hugged her ass, still grinning, still completely unaware.

The elevator dinged. She stepped inside.

The doors slid shut.

You closed your door and stood there in your towel, dripping on the carpet, replaying the conversation.

She said you looked good.

She was staring at your body.

She noticed you were getting hard and bit her lip.

She said she was going downstairs alone—

Your grin faded.

Your stomach dropped.

"Oh my god," you whispered to the empty room.

She was wearing pajamas. Barefoot. Hair still damp from the shower.

She came to your room at almost ten at night.

She looked at you like she wanted to eat you alive.

She gave you every possible opening.

And you said have fun.

"Oh my god," you said again, louder this time. "I'm the dumbest person alive."

You stood frozen for exactly three seconds, horror and realization washing over you in waves.

Then you yanked open the door and bolted into the hallway.

"Mara—wait—"

The elevator display showed the numbers descending. 3... 2... 1...

She was already gone.

You stood there, chest heaving, towel slipping dangerously low on your hips, staring at those descending numbers like they were your last chance at happiness disappearing.

Idiot. Complete and total idiot.

You spun around to head back to your room—you'd throw on clothes, catch the next elevator, find her downstairs and explain that you were tired and stupid and—

Your door swung shut behind you with a soft, decisive click.

Your blood went cold.

No.

You tried the handle.

Locked.

"No no no no—"

You tried again, rattling it desperately. Definitely locked.

You looked down at yourself: bare chest still damp, skin flushed, one white towel that was already starting to slip from your hips.

No key card. No phone. No wallet.

No way back inside.

And somewhere downstairs, Mara was sitting alone at a bar, probably realizing you were never going to get the hint.

"Fuck," you whispered.