Chapter 10: Hotel Room
The drive to the Lazy River was quiet, charged with a current that hummed louder than the truck’s engine. Brandon’s hand rested on the gear shift; Alysha’s was on his thigh, her thumb strocing small, absent circles through the denim. The neon river bled its sad glow across the asphalt as he parked. He killed the engine. The sudden silence was immense.
“It’s not much,” he said again, the apology automatic.
She just unhooked her seatbelt. “It’s a door that closes. That’s all that matters.”
The motel lobby was deserted, the TV murmuring about tomorrow’s weather. The air smelled of lemon cleaner and dust. He fumbled the keycard, his usual grace deserting him. The lock clicked green. He pushed the door open, reached for the light switch.
Her hand caught his wrist. “Don’t.”
He turned in the dark doorway, a question half-formed. It died the moment he saw her face, lit in fractured blue and red from the sign outside. Her expression was certainty itself. No more teasing, no more waiting. It was a look that erased the fourteen years, the miles, the motel-room shabbiness. It was just now.
As soon as they were through the door their lips found each other.
The kiss wasn’t hungry. It was slow. Overwhelming. A deep, reclaiming press that mapped the truth of the last two days without words. A shared moan, low and vibrating, was muffled between their mouths. His hat tumbled to the floor. Her purse slipped from her shoulder. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs on her jaw, before sliding back into the silk of her braids. Her arms locked around his neck, pulling him down to her.
Their tongues danced—a languid, searching rhythm that tasted of her cocktail and his patience. It was a conversation more intimate than any they’d had. He broke the kiss to trail his mouth along her jaw, down the column of her neck, inhaling the jasmine heat of her skin. She arched into him with a sigh that was almost a sob.
Then his hands were on her, firm and knowing. He palmed her ass through the tight jeans, pulling her flush against the hard ridge of his denims. The groan that ripped from her was raw, unfiltered. “Brandon.”
He worked her neck, his teeth grazing the tendon, his tongue soothing the spot. His fingers found the single button at the center of her shirt. A flick, and it gave way. The material fell open, revealing the smooth slope of her stomach, the lace edge of her bra. He pushed the fabric aside, his mouth following, worshipping the swell of her breast above the cup before he tugged the lace down with his teeth. He took her nipple into his mouth, sucking, laving, nipping with just enough edge to make her cry out and fist her hands in his hair.
He was methodical, relentless. He worked his way down her exposed abdomen, kissing a burning trail over the soft skin, his stubble a delicious abrasion. She shuddered, her legs buckling. He held her up, lowering them both to their knees on the thin motel carpet.
He made quick work of her jeans, the button, the zipper, yanking them and her panties down her hips in one urgent motion. She kicked them away. The cool air of the room hit her skin, followed by the scorching heat of his breath. He didn’t hesitate. He pushed her thighs apart and put his mouth on her.
It was exactly as she remembered from the motel room, but deeper, more focused, without the fear of discovery. The first flat stroke of his tongue made her back bow. The second made her swear, a filthy, grateful word into the silent room. He ate her pussy with a singular dedication, using his lips, his tongue, the gentle pressure of his teeth, until she was shaking, begging, her heels digging into the small of his back.
From there it was a free for all.
She came on his face with a choked, shattered scream, her thighs clamping around his head. He rode it out, gentling her through the pulses before surging up, grabbing a condom from his discarded wallet, sheathing himself in one ragged motion.
He lifted her, carried her the three steps to the bed, and laid her down. They moved together in an endless, sweet, gentle but firm and effective rhythm. Missionary, his weight a beloved anchor, her legs hooked over his elbows, her eyes wide and locked on his. On her side, him curled around her, his arm hooked under her knee, his pace deep and relentless. Prone, with her face in the pillow, him covering her, one hand braced by her head, the other gripping her hip, each drive wringing a muffled, broken sound from her throat.
Behind, on her knees, the slapping sound of skin on skin mixing with their gasps. Cowgirl, her braids swinging, her head thrown back, him watching her, his hands guiding her hips. Reverse cowgirl, her back to him, her own view of their joining in the dark TV screen, his hands possessive on her waist. Face down, ass up, him leaning over her, his mouth on her shoulder, whispering things that were half-prayer, half-obscenity.
The cheap sheets grew damp, then soaked. The mattress beneath them sighed and protested. The room filled with the salt-and-sex scent of their sweat, the sound of flesh and ragged breath and the bedframe’s consistent knock against the wall. They fucked and came each other’s brains out, the climaxes rolling one into the next, a seemingly endless cycle of tension and shattering release until they were spent, hollowed out, trembling.
A long time later, he came back from the bathroom with a hand towel and a motel ice pack wrapped in the other. He cleaned her gently, a tenderness that contrasted violently with the animal ferocity of minutes before. She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes.
He settled beside her, winced, and placed the ice pack on his balls. He lit two cigarettes from a pack on the nightstand, passing one to her. The embers glowed in the dark.
Her stomach muscles, overworked and sensitive, trembled under her own touch. She chuckled, a low, smoky, utterly satisfied sound.
“What?” he asked, his voice shot.
“Just… everything.” She took a drag, exhaling toward the ceiling. “My body’s arguing with me. My brain gave up hours ago.” She turned her head on the pillow. In the dim light, she could see the sweat-dried lines on his skin, the peaceful exhaustion on his face. “You wrecked me, Brandon Croft.”
He smiled, a boyish, triumphant thing. “Good.”
They smoked in silence. The ice pack crunched as he adjusted it.
“Mike was right,” she said softly.
“About what?”
“You needed a vacation.” She traced a finger over the dusting of hair on his chest. “And I… I needed to be reminded that not all miracles are in a hospital.”
He stubbed his cigarette out, took hers and did the same, then gathered her against him, ice pack and all. She nestled her head in the hollow of his shoulder, her leg thrown over his. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a profound, bone-deep lethargy.
“You’re staying, right?” he mumbled into her hair, his words slurring with impending sleep. “Not driving home.”
“Yeah,” she whispered, her own eyes closing. The motel room, for all its flaws, felt like the only place in the world. “I’m staying.”
Outside, the neon river flickered once, twice, and went dark for the night.
Outside, the neon river flickered once, twice, and went dark for the night. The room was plunged into a deeper silence, broken only by the rumble of a distant semi on the highway and the sound of their breathing. She felt the steady thump of his heart under her ear, a rhythm more comforting than any lullaby.
“Mike gave you a real sentence, then,” she murmured into the dark, her fingers idly tracing the hard line of his collarbone. “How long’s this forced vacation?”
He shifted, the arm beneath her tightening its hold. “Three weeks.” He said it like a man stating his sentence, but then his voice softened, warming with a new intention. “Only plans I have now are how to make it more.”
She went still for a moment, processing the simple, colossal promise in those words. A slow, helpless smile spread across her lips in the darkness, a fragile, beautiful thing she didn’t try to hide. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to hope for something that was just hers, something bright and uncomplicated.
He felt her smile against his skin. He bent his head, his lips finding her temple in a kiss that was pure tenderness. No demand, no hunger left in it. Just a seal. He held her against him, enveloping her in his warmth, her skin glued to his by a fine layer of dried sweat. Her breathing deepened, grew slower, more rhythmic. The last of the tension she carried from her shift, from her fears, from the sheer emotional whiplash of the evening, finally seeped out of her muscles.
This time, it was her that fell asleep.
He listened to the change in her breath, felt the exact moment her body went heavy and pliant in his arms. A profound sense of rightness settled over him, more solid than any championship buckle. He watched the faint light from the parking lot security lamp trace the elegant curve of her braid across his pillow. He committed the weight of her, the scent of her, the feel of her to memory.
Brandon Croft followed shortly after, a deep, dreamless sleep pulling him under without a fight. The ice pack, long forgotten, thawed into a damp spot on the rumpled sheets beside them.