You ask for spare key

"I'm locked out," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than intended. "Of my room."

"Oh dear." Sienna's expression shifts into perfect sympathy, but her eyes are still dancing with amusement. "That is unfortunate. Room number?"

"304."

Her fingers move across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, crimson nails clicking softly against the keys. "Let me pull up your reservation." She pauses, tilting her head. "And you have your ID with you, I assume?"

You look down at yourself—bare chest, towel, nothing else.

Then back at her.

She's waiting, expression perfectly innocent, like she hasn't noticed you're standing there in nothing but terry cloth.

"No," you say slowly. "I don't have my ID."

"Ah." She nods thoughtfully, as if this is a completely unexpected development. "What about a copy of your reservation confirmation? Perhaps a printout?"

You stare at her.

She maintains eye contact, not even a flicker of a smile, though you can see it in her eyes—she's enjoying this.

"No," you say. "No printout."

"Hmm." She taps one manicured nail against her lips, pretending to consider. "That does make things more complicated. Our policy requires identification to issue a replacement key card." She pauses. "For security purposes, you understand."

"Right. Security."

"However—" she draws the word out, leaning forward slightly, "—there is an alternative protocol for situations like this."

Hope flares in your chest. "Yeah? What's that?"

"Well, first—" her eyes drop deliberately to your towel, then back up to your face, "—I'll need you to return all hotel property currently in your possession."

Your brain takes a moment to process that.

"Hotel property," you repeat.

"Yes." She gestures at you with one elegant hand. "Anything belonging to The Rosewood that you may have on your person."

The towel.

She means the towel.

"You want me to give you the towel."

"I need you to return the towel," she corrects, and her voice has that same matter-of-fact quality a teacher might use explaining something obvious to a slow student. "It's hotel property. I can't proceed with the alternative protocol while you're still in possession of it."

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. "But I'm not wearing anything under this."

"Yeah, I can tell." Her eyes drop meaningfully to where the towel tents slightly at your groin, then back up to your face. "That's pretty obvious from here, actually."

Heat floods through you—your face, your chest, straight down to your cock, which twitches visibly beneath the thin fabric.

She notices. Of course she notices. Her lips curve just slightly.

"Someone could see," you manage.

"Yes," she agrees simply. "That could happen."

"I'll be completely naked."

"Yes, you will."

"In the middle of the lobby."

"Technically slightly to the left of middle," she says, glancing around as if checking. "But yes, essentially."

Your cock is definitely more than half-hard now, pressing insistently against the towel, and there's no way she can't see it.

"Can't I just... keep it until you get the key? Then I'll give it back when I'm in my room?"

"No." The word is firm, final, but there's amusement dancing in her eyes. "The protocol is quite clear. All hotel property must be returned before I can proceed." She tilts her head. "Unless you'd prefer to wait until morning? I'm sure the day shift would be happy to help you then."

The thought of standing here in a towel until morning, of never finding Mara, of losing whatever chance you might still have—

"No," you say quickly. "No, I'll... I'll give you the towel."

"Good boy," she says, and the words are so casual, so matter-of-fact, that it takes a second for them to hit you.

When they do, your cock throbs hard against the towel.

Her eyes flick down, watching it move, and her smile deepens. "Whenever you're ready, John."

You take a breath.

This is insane. This is completely insane.

But you need that key.

Your fingers find the knot at your hip. One pull and the whole thing will come loose.

Sienna watches, leaning against the counter now, chin resting on one hand like she's settling in for a show.

You pull.

The towel falls.

Cool air hits your skin all at once—your ass, your thighs, your cock. You're completely exposed, standing in the middle of the lobby, and your hands fly down immediately to cover yourself.

But you're well past half-hard now, thick and heavy and straining upward, and your hands can barely contain it. Your fingers press against hot flesh, trying to hide the obvious evidence of your arousal, but it's pushing against your palms, the head peeking out between your fingers.

The towel sits in a white puddle at your feet.

Sienna's eyes drop to it, then travel up—slowly, so slowly—taking in your bare legs, your hands pressed desperately over your groin (not doing nearly enough), your flat stomach, your chest rising and falling with quick breaths.

When she meets your eyes again, she's not even pretending to be professional anymore.

"Fuck, you're hot," she says, voice low and appreciative.

Your cock jerks in your hands.

She notices, and laughs—not mockingly, but with genuine delight. "Oh, you like that." It's not a question.

"I—" You don't know what to say. Your face is on fire.

"Don't worry." She straightens, all business again, though her eyes are still hot. "I need to actually receive the towel, John. Hotel policy requires I take physical possession of all returned property."

Your stomach drops. "What?"

"The towel." She gestures at the floor. "I need you to hand it to me."

You stare at her.

She stares back, expression perfectly calm.

"I'm..." You look down at your hands, currently the only thing between you and complete exposure. "I'm kind of using my hands right now."

"I can see that." Her gaze drops again, lingering on where your cock is very clearly straining against your inadequate grip. "Though I'm not sure I'd call what you're doing 'covering.' More like... framing."

Heat shoots through you and your cock throbs so hard you have to bite back a sound.

"So you have two options," she continues, and now there's that edge in her voice again—teasing, dominant, like she's enjoying every second of your predicament.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on the counter.

"Option one—you pick up the towel and hand it to me yourself." She pauses, letting that sink in. "Which would, of course, require you to move your hands."

Your breathing has gone shallow.

"Or option two—" now she's smiling, wicked and delighted, "—I come around from behind this desk and pick it up myself."

The image flashes through your mind—Sienna walking around the counter in that pencil skirt and heels, bending down right in front of you to retrieve the towel while you stand there naked and hard and completely exposed, close enough to touch.

Your cock is fully hard now, pressing insistently against your palms, and there's no hiding it anymore.

She's still watching you, waiting, and there's heat in her eyes that makes your skin prickle.

"So what will it be, John?"