Chapter 1: The Hotel Room
The motel room smelled like stale cigarettes and regret, with a faint undertone of industrial-strength cleaner that had long since given up the fight. Amelia’s fingers twitched at her sides as she took in the peeling wallpaper, the yellowed ceiling stain shaped like a screaming face, and the bed—queen-sized, sagging in the middle like it had already seen too much. Sophie stood frozen beside her, gripping her purse like it was the last life raft on the Titanic.
"Jesus," Sophie muttered, wrinkling her nose. "This is where people come to die, not lose their virginity."
Amelia swallowed hard, her throat dry. "We could still leave," she offered, but the words sounded hollow even to her. The bed creaked as Ben stretched out on it, shirt already unbuttoned to reveal a chest that was, admittedly, impressive.
"Ladies," he drawled, flashing a grin that probably worked on women with lower standards. "You gonna stand there all night, or are we doing this?"
Sophie exhaled sharply, then unclenched her fingers from her purse strap. "Fuck it," she said, reaching for the buttons of her dress. Amelia watched as the floral fabric slipped from Sophie’s shoulders, pooling at her feet like a deflated parachute. The sight of her in plain white cotton underwear—practical, almost childish—made Amelia’s stomach twist.
Her own dress suddenly felt like a straitjacket. She tugged at the zipper, fingers fumbling, the sound of it grating in the heavy silence. Ben watched them both with the lazy amusement of a cat eyeing two very stupid mice.
"Ground rules," Amelia blurted, crossing her arms over her chest. "We decide the pace. No surprises."
Ben chuckled, rolling onto his side. "You want a contract? A safe word?" He traced a finger along the threadbare comforter. "This isn’t church, sweetheart."
Sophie shot Amelia a look—half panic, half what the hell did we get ourselves into?—before squaring her shoulders. "We’re not backing out," she said, though her voice wavered. "But we’re not just… meat either."
Ben sat up, his smirk widening. "Never said you were." He reached out, catching Amelia’s wrist before she could retreat. His grip wasn’t tight, but it wasn’t gentle either. "But let’s be real—you two came here for a story. Something to shock your Bible-thumping friends with."
Amelia’s pulse jumped. He wasn’t wrong. That didn’t make it better.
Sophie stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the grimy linoleum. "We came for control," she corrected, chin lifted. "So either play nice, or we walk."
Ben’s thumb stroked Amelia’s inner wrist, slow and deliberate. "And here I thought you wanted to be bad," he murmured.
Amelia yanked her hand back, skin burning. "Bad doesn’t mean stupid."
The air between them crackled—part challenge, part dare. Ben leaned back, spreading his arms. "Then show me what bad looks like."
Sophie’s breath hitched. Amelia clenched her fists.
The bed creaked again, impatient.
"Let’s find