The receptionist looks hot

The next flight was to Los Angeles, a coast-to-coast stretch that promised sun-soaked glamour at the end of the line. I moved through the cabin, my heels sinking into the plush carpet, my navy uniform clinging to me in the dry, recycled air. The routine was the same—smiles, trays, murmured pleasantries—but something felt different. A pull, deep and insistent, tugged at my chest, though I couldn’t place why. Then I saw him again, Row 12, Seat A. Liam. His name came to me unbidden, a whisper in my mind, as if he’d planted it there. Those silvered eyes locked onto mine, and my breath hitched, a flush creeping up my neck beneath the silk scarf.

He didn’t speak this time, not at first. He just watched, his gaze a slow caress that traced the curve of my hips, the swell of my breasts, until I felt stripped bare despite the layers of fabric. Halfway through the flight, he beckoned me with a crooked finger. “A sip,” he said, his voice a velvet command, and I obeyed, my body moving before my mind could catch up. I offered my wrist, sleeve rolled back, and his lips closed over my skin—cool, firm, a tease of tongue that sent a shiver racing up my arm. The cabin spun, my pulse pounding in my ears, and when he released me, I stumbled back, dizzy with a heat I couldn’t name.

We landed in LA, the city sprawling beneath a golden haze, and I followed him again. It wasn’t a choice; it was a compulsion, my legs carrying me through the terminal, past the bustle of travelers, to a waiting car. The drive was a blur of palm trees and neon, ending at a sleek hotel tower piercing the skyline. He led me inside, his hand at the small of my back, a cold brand that made my skin tingle through my blouse.

In the lobby, she was waiting—Lila, the floor manager. She was striking, all sharp cheekbones and honeyed skin, her auburn hair cascading over one shoulder in waves that caught the light. Her uniform was tailored to perfection, a black blazer and skirt that hugged her lithe frame, and her eyes, a deep hazel, flickered with something knowing as they met mine. She smiled, a curve of lips that was both welcoming and possessive, and I felt it then—the same pull I’d felt with Liam. She belonged to him too. The realization sank into me, heavy and warm, like a secret I wasn’t meant to understand.

“Lila,” Liam said, his voice a low purr, and she stepped forward, her heels clicking against the marble floor. “The suite’s ready.” Her gaze lingered on me, appraising, and a spark of heat flared in my chest. She turned, leading us to the elevator, her hips swaying with a confidence that drew my eyes despite myself. The ride up was silent, the air thick with anticipation, Liam’s presence a cool shadow at my side, Lila’s perfume—jasmine and spice—wrapping around me.

The suite was a vision of decadence: floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering city, a bed draped in black silk, a bottle of wine chilling beside a tray of crystal glasses. Lila moved with purpose, dimming the lights until the room glowed soft and intimate, while Liam shed his jacket, revealing the lean strength beneath his shirt. He beckoned us both, his fingers curling in a gesture that brooked no refusal, and we went to him, drawn like moths to a flame.

He took me first, his hands sliding up my arms, peeling my blouse away with a slow reverence that made my breath catch. The fabric fell, exposing the lace of my bra, and his fingers traced the edges, igniting a fire beneath my skin. Then he turned to Lila, unbuttoning her blazer with the same deliberate care, her skin golden against the black silk of her camisole. She met my eyes, a silent invitation, and I stepped closer, my hands trembling as they brushed her waist.

Liam’s lips found my neck again, that familiar sting as his fangs sank in, deeper this time, a slow pull that flooded me with liquid heat. I moaned, my head tipping back, and I felt Lila’s hands on me, soft and sure, guiding me to the bed. He released me, turning to her, and I watched, mesmerized, as he bit her too—her throat arching, a gasp spilling from her lips, her body shuddering against his. The sight sent a pulse of desire through me, raw and unbidden.

We were his, wholly and utterly, and he orchestrated us with a master’s touch. He pressed me down onto the silk, my skirt hiked up, my thighs parting as he settled between them. His hands were ice, his mouth a furnace as he kissed me, deep and claiming, the taste of my own blood faint on his tongue. Lila joined us, her fingers threading through my hair, her lips brushing mine in a kiss that was soft, then hungry, her tongue teasing as Liam’s hands roamed her body beside me. The air was thick with our mingled breaths, the scent of jasmine and musk, the sound of silk rustling and skin meeting skin.

He took us both, a dance of cold and heat, his movements slow and relentless. I felt him inside me, a rhythm that built like a tide, while Lila’s hands explored me, her nails grazing my hips, her mouth trailing fire across my chest. Then he turned to her, lifting her effortlessly, and I watched, enthralled, as she wrapped her legs around him, her cries sharp and sweet. We moved together, a tangle of limbs and desire, each touch a spark, each bite a tether that bound us tighter to him. I lost myself in it—the slick of sweat, the press of bodies, the crescendo that shattered me, leaving me gasping, trembling, claimed.

When it was over, we lay there, sprawled across the silk, our breaths slowing in the dim light. Liam rose, pristine and unruffled, and murmured something I didn’t catch. The next morning, I woke in my own room, my uniform pressed and waiting, my skin unmarred. Lila’s face, her touch, the night—it was all a blank, a dream I couldn’t grasp. I checked my schedule: another flight tomorrow. A faint ache lingered, a pull I couldn’t name, and somewhere, in the shadows of my mind, his voice echoed: You’re mine. And hers, too, I thought, though I didn’t know why.