They make it to the hotel

The hotel elevator doors slid open with a hushed chime, revealing plush carpet that swallowed their footsteps as Kevin guided Emily down the hall. Her Samsonite roller bag—now bearing a faint scuff from its ordeal—clicked rhythmically between them until they reached their adjacent rooms. Kevin swiped his keycard first, watching Emily’s fingers tremble as she attempted hers twice before the lock flashed green.

Inside, the suite smelled of lemongrass and linen, the king bed crisply made with more pillows than either could possibly need. Kevin lingered in her doorway just long enough to see her sag against the dresser, her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows showing smudged mascara and the ghost of Mitchell’s grip on her wrist. "Room service," he said, softer than intended. "Whatever you want." Emily nodded without meeting his eyes, but when he turned to leave, her whisper followed: "Stay. Please."

Kevin’s throat tightened as Emily’s whispered plea hung between them—the hotel suite suddenly feeling too large and too small all at once. He hesitated by the minibar, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on its polished surface before clearing his throat. "What happened back there…" The words tasted like ash. "Mitchell’s sick game wasn’t our fault." His wedding band caught the lamplight as he gestured vaguely toward the airport beyond the windows. "And it can’t—won’t—leave this room."

Emily’s reflection in the window flinched as if struck, her arms crossing over her chest where the blazer gaped. The silence stretched thin enough to hear the ice machine rattle down the hall. When she finally spoke, her voice was smaller than the hotel’s complimentary soap. "Your wife," she murmured, not a question but an acknowledgment—one that made Kevin’s stomach twist harder than the Taser had.

Kevin's wedding band felt suddenly molten against his skin as Emily's words settled between them—a truth he'd been avoiding since the moment her thighs pressed against his lap in that cursed security room. His reflection in the minibar's mirrored surface showed stubble darker than usual, shadows under his eyes that no amount of hotel lighting could erase. The ice machine's rattle faded beneath the memory of Emily's choked gasp when Mitchell **** her down onto him, how her body had clenched around his shameful arousal despite everything.

Emily's fingers plucked at her blazer sleeve where Mitchell's grip had wrinkled the fabric, her gaze fixed on the city lights twinkling beyond the window like distant witnesses. When she spoke again, it was to the glass rather than to him: "I've never... before today." The admission cracked halfway through, her shoulders hunching as if bracing for judgment. Kevin's throat worked silently—how did one apologize for stealing someone's first time in a TSA interrogation room? The minibar's lock clicked open under his restless fingers, revealing neatly arranged miniature bottles that suddenly seemed absurd beside the weight of her confession.

The mattress dipped under Kevin’s weight as he sat beside Emily, careful to leave a respectable gap between them despite the way her knees kept brushing his thigh. Her fingers worried the edge of a pillowcase embroidered with the hotel’s logo, her gaze fixed on the room service menu like it held the answers to unaskable questions. "You’re handling this better than I would’ve," he admitted, reaching for the whiskey they’d ordered—the ice cubes clinking like a toast to terrible decisions. Emily’s lips quirked in something almost like a smile. "Daddy always said Drehers don’t break," she murmured, though the way she shifted uncomfortably on the bed betrayed the sticky truth between her thighs.

The first sip burned Kevin’s throat as Emily finally met his eyes, her blue irises reflecting the amber liquor and something darker—hunger or horror, he couldn’t tell. "It felt... good," she whispered, so low he almost missed it. Her cheeks flushed immediately, fingers flying to cover her mouth as if she could shove the confession back in. Kevin’s grip tightened on his glass, the memory of her tight heat making his traitorous cock twitch again. "Biology’s a bitch," he muttered.