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“Forget food,” I said. “You’re in charge. Remember?”
“Oh, I remember.” She pushed me back onto the bed and straddled my hips, completely naked now, and she looked down at me like a cat with a very small mouse.
Then she took her time. A ridiculous, cruel amount of time.
She undressed me button by button. She kissed my chest, my stomach, the line of hair below my navel, then stopped and kissed her way back up again. She rubbed herself slowly against my cock through my boxers until I was gasping, then sat back and watched me squirm.
“Please,” I said eventually.
“Please what?”
“Please anything.”
She laughed, low and delighted, and slid her hand into my boxers and stroked me exactly twice. Then she took it away again.
“I told you,” she whispered. “I decide how far it goes. And tonight it goes this far.” She kissed me, slow and deep, and lay down with her head on my chest. “You can be impulsive next time.”
“Next time?”
“Shh. Sleep.”
I didn’t, for a long while. When I finally woke it was eight, the room was quiet and her bag was gone.
On the pillow beside me, written on hotel notepaper in neat architect’s capitals, was a phone number. Underneath it said:
NEXT TIME. YOUR HOTEL, YOUR BOOKING. P.
Ending 9 of 16: A Number on the Pillow. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.