Chapter 3: The Walk of Shame
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her into the muffled silence of the hallway. The sound was a period at the end of a sentence she couldn’t read back. Her heels sank into the carpet, each step feeling unnaturally loud in her own ears despite the plush pile. The polished marble stretched, a river of cold stone flanked by faded portraits of smiling, anonymous couples. Ghosts. The distant thunk-thunk of the ice machine was a mechanical heartbeat, counting down to nothing.
Her room. The key card slipped twice in her sweating palm before the green light flashed. She shouldered the door open.
The chill hit her first. The AC she’d left running to mask the silence. The rose petals were a burgundy smear across the white duvet, now just litter. The unopened bottle of Macallan stood sentinel on the dresser, the ribbon a mocking bow. The sight of it, of the carefully planned neglect it represented, twisted in her gut.
She was drunk. The tequila and the scotch had merged into a toxic, swirling fog. The room listed gently to the left. She kicked off her shoes, one thudding against the baseboard, the other spinning under the desk. She walked to the window, bracing her hands on the cool glass, forehead pressed to the pane. The city lights bled into starbursts.
Why did you tell them?
The question clawed its way up through the alcohol. Why had she peeled back her skin and shown those boys her raw, pulsing misery? To Ricky, with his plastic crown and his cruel, gleeful eyes. To Mark and Jake, spectators to a marital car crash. To Bobby, whose hand on her wrist felt like a claim.
They’re your son’s age.
The thought was an icepick. Michael was twenty. He brought his friends home, loud and smelling of grass and cheap beer, their laughter shaking the rafters. She made them sandwiches. She reminded them to use coasters. She was a mom. A warm, open face. Kind eyes.
Tonight, she had looked at four versions of her son and told them, in graphic, humiliating detail, that her husband didn’t want to fuck her. She had watched their eyes darken with a kind of fascinated, pitying hunger. She had given them the story as an offering, and they had consumed it.
A wave of nausea rolled through her, hot and sour. She stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the cool porcelain of the sink. She stared at her reflection. Mascara was smudged in gray shadows beneath her eyes. Her foundation was streaked where she’d wiped the single, traitorous tear. She looked wrecked. Used. She turned on the cold tap, splashed water on her face, the shock barely registering.
A bath. She needed to wash the night off. The smell of their cologne, the feel of their eyes, the sticky feel of spilled tequila on her skin. She would sink into hot water and try to dissolve.
She leaned over the enormous tub, her head spinning as she fumbled with the taps. The water roared out, steaming. She dumped a small bottle of complimentary bath gel under the stream, the fake lavender scent rising in a cloying cloud. She straightened up, the room tilting again. She began to unbutton her jeans, her fingers clumsy on the fly.
Knock.
The sound was firm. Unmistakable. Two sharp raps on the suite’s main door.
She froze, one hand on her waistband, her blood seeming to pause in her veins. It was him. It had to be. Derek. He’d come back. Regret, or fury, or some bland, practiced apology perched on his tongue. Her heart hammered, a frantic, hopeful little bird against her ribs. The bath water roared, filling the silence.
Knock knock.
Louder this time. Insistent.
She buttoned her jeans with fumbling haste, wiped her hands on her shirt. She walked unsteadily to the door, the lavender steam trailing her like a ghost. She didn’t look through the peephole. She didn’t want to see his face, the familiar apology already forming. She yanked the door open.
It wasn’t Derek.
Bobby stood in the hallway, alone. He’d changed his shirt. A simple, clean gray henley hugged his shoulders and chest. He’d washed his face; his blond hair was damp at the temples. He smelled of soap and toothpaste, a stark, clean contrast to the suite’s earlier musk. He held a plastic ice bucket loosely in one hand. His blue eyes were clear, sober, and intent.
“Ice machine’s working now,” he said, his voice quiet in the hollow hall.
Molly just stared. The hope curdled, replaced by a deeper, more terrifying current. He’d followed her. He’d waited.
“I…” she started, but no sound came out. The roar of the bath water was a waterfall in the room behind her.
Bobby’s gaze moved past her, taking in the empty suite, the petal-strewn bed, the running bath. He looked back at her. “You left.”
“I needed… to be alone.” The lie was feeble.
“You don’t need to be alone.” He said it simply, a statement of fact. He took a small step forward, not crossing the threshold, but invading the space all the same.
He took a small step forward, not crossing the threshold, but invading the space all the same. The clean scent of his soap cut through the lavender steam drifting from the bathroom. He held up the ice bucket, a faint rattle from within.
“You seemed upset,” Bobby said, his voice low and measured. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He gestured with the bucket. “I brought you some ice, for your scotch.”
Molly stared at the plastic container, then at his face. The tequila haze made his features soft at the edges, but his eyes were sharp, focused. She heard the bathwater still roaring, a frantic counterpoint to the sudden quiet between them.
“I’m already pretty drunk,” she said. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the knit of her shirt damp from the bathroom humidity. “And this night has been really emotional.” She forced a smile, brittle and unconvincing. “You’re super nice. But I think I need to go to bed.”
Bobby didn’t move. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, casual, but his presence filled the entrance. “One more drink,” he said, not a question. His eyes dropped to the unopened bottle on her dresser, the ribbon still tied. “That fancy scotch you bought for him. Let’s not let it go to waste.”
Molly followed his gaze. The Macallan gleamed under the lamplight, a trophy of her failed seduction. The idea of drinking it now, with him, felt like a violation. A reclamation. Her throat tightened.
She hesitated, the bathwater’s steam curling around her ankles. The memory of Derek’s dismissive glance warred with the solid reality of Bobby in her doorway. “Just one,” Bobby said, his tone softening, almost coaxing. “To calm down. Then I’ll go.”
The roar of the tub was a scream in the quiet room. She thought of the empty bed, the petals, the endless night ahead. She thought of Bobby’s hand on her wrist in the suite, the heat that had cut through her numbness.
“Okay,” she whispered, the word barely audible over the water. She stepped back, opening the door wider. “One drink.”
Bobby crossed the threshold, his shoes silent on the tile. He let the door swing shut behind him with a soft, final click.
The click of the door latch echoed in the suite, a sound more definitive than any word. Bobby stood just inside, the plastic ice bucket dangling from his fingers, his eyes scanning the disorder—the petal-strewn bed, the pristine bottle of scotch, the steaming bathroom door. The roar of the bathwater filled the space, a relentless white noise.
Molly remained frozen, her arms still wrapped around herself. The lavender steam from the bathroom curled around her legs, dampening the hem of her jeans. She watched him place the ice bucket carefully on the dresser beside the Macallan, his movements deliberate and calm.
“You should turn that off,” he said, nodding toward the bathroom. “Before it floods.”
His voice was practical, cutting through her stupor. She blinked, then moved on unsteady legs to the bathroom, leaning over the tub to twist the taps. The sudden silence was abrupt and ringing. Water dripped from the faucet into the still pool below. She stared at her reflection in the water, distorted and wavering.
When she turned back, Bobby had pulled the two chairs from the small desk toward the center of the room. He sat in one, long legs stretched out, waiting. The other chair faced him. He gestured to it with a tilt of his chin.
“Sit. Have that drink.”
Molly hesitated, the tequila and scotch churning in her stomach. The room felt smaller with him in it, the air charged with a new tension. She walked over and sank into the offered chair, the furniture creaking under her weight. Bobby reached for the Macallan, untied the ribbon with a single pull, and broke the seal with a soft crack.
He poured two generous measures into the hotel glasses, the amber liquid catching the light. He handed one to her, their fingers brushing. The warmth of his touch lingered.
“So,” he said, after taking a sip. He winced slightly at the strength, then smiled. “Fancy stuff. Better than that paint thinner we were drinking.”
Molly brought the glass to her lips, the scent of oak and smoke filling her nose. She drank, letting the smooth heat coat her throat. It was better. It was wasted on her. On this.
“Why did you come after me?” she asked, her voice low. She kept her eyes on the glass, swirling the liquid.
Bobby leaned back, studying her. “You looked like you were about to shatter into pieces back there. In front of those assholes.” He took another drink. “I’ve seen that look before. On my mom, actually. After my dad left.”
The admission hung between them, raw and unexpected. Molly looked up, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were serious, no longer teasing. The party-boy veneer had cracked.
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically.
“Don’t be,” he shrugged. “It was a long time ago. But I know what it looks like when someone gets left in a room alone.” He paused, his eyes drifting around the suite before landing back on her. “Relationships are fucking brutal, you know? They either feed you or they starve you. There’s not much in between.”
Molly felt a bitter laugh escape her. “He starved me,” she whispered, the words tasting of ash. “For years. Slowly. Until I forgot what it felt like to be full.”
Bobby watched her, his expression unreadable. He swirled his scotch, the ice clinking. “That outfit you were talking about,” he said, his voice dropping, casual yet intent. “Sounded really hot.”
He didn’t look at her face. Instead, his gaze slid past her, across the carpet, to a shadowed corner near the closet. Molly followed his look.
There, puddled on the floor like a shed skin, was the black lace bodysuit. It was crumpled, one strap tangled, the sheer material a dark pool against the beige hotel carpet. She had torn it from her suitcase after Derek left, held it for a moment, then thrown it there in a fury of disgust. She’d forgotten it was out.
Bobby pointed at it with his glass, a slow, deliberate motion. “That the one?”
Molly’s breath caught. The air thickened, the scotch warming her veins. She nodded, unable to speak.
“Looks expensive,” he murmured, his eyes still on the lace. “Looks like it would feel like nothing against skin.” He finally looked back at her, his gaze intense. “It’s a fucking crime he didn’t want to see you in it.”
Molly’s laugh was a short, brittle sound. She took another burning sip of scotch. “It’s actually really cheap. I got it off Amazon. Lol.” The internet slang felt absurd leaving her mouth, a pathetic attempt to downgrade the moment’s significance.
Bobby didn’t smile. His eyes held hers. “Price doesn’t matter.” He set his glass down on the carpet with a soft thud. “Put it on.”
The command hung in the lavender-steamed air, simple and absolute. It wasn’t a question. It was a test, a line drawn in the sand of the hotel carpet. Molly’s heart stalled, then began a frantic, pounding rhythm against her ribs. The scotch blurred the edges of the room but sharpened this single point of reality: him, watching, and the puddle of black lace.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because he didn’t want to see it,” Bobby said, his voice low and rough. “I do.”
He didn’t move from his chair. He just waited, his gaze unwavering. It was the hottest, most terrifying thing anyone had ever said to her. It cut through a decade of neglect, of fading into the background of her own life. She was seen, and the searing focus of it was unbearable.
She was seen, and the searing focus of it was unbearable.
Molly’s mouth went dry. The scotch taste turned to dust on her tongue. Her eyes flicked from his unwavering face to the discarded lace on the floor, a dark spill against the beige. Her mind clawed for the shore of reason, for the lifeline of her other life.
She hesitated, her voice a thin, frayed wire. “You’re my son’s age. And I’m married.” She hugged herself tighter, the knit fabric straining. “Besides, I probably look like a whale in it.”
Bobby didn’t blink. His expression remained patient, but a new intensity hardened his jaw. He leaned forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees, closing the distance between their chairs. The air crackled.
“Your hubby isn’t here,” he said, the word ‘hubby’ a deliberate, diminutive jab. His voice was quiet, firm, devoid of its earlier teasing. “He’s at poker. Remember?” He let that hang, let the image of Derek’s retreating back fill the space. “And I’ll give you my honest assessment.”
The challenge was absolute. It wasn’t about seduction anymore. It was about truth. A brutal, carnal audit her husband had refused to conduct. Molly stared at him, at this boy-man with clear, sober eyes who had followed her into the wreckage. The tequila and scotch fused into a single, molten command in her blood.
She stood up.
Her legs held. She walked the few steps to where the lace lay, each movement mechanical. The suite was silent except for the ragged sound of her own breathing. She bent down, the motion making her head swim, and picked up the bodysuit. The material was insubstantial, a cobweb of nylon and lycra. It felt cold.
She didn’t look at him. She turned and walked into the bathroom, pushing the door until it clicked but didn’t latch. A sliver of light from the main room cut across the tile floor.
Her fingers were clumsy on the buttons of her jeans. She shoved them down her hips, stepping out of them, kicking them aside. The burgundy knit top followed, peeled over her head and dropped onto the closed toilet lid. She stood in her plain, beige bra and cotton briefs, the uniform of a mother, of a wife who had stopped expecting to be seen. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin.
She unhooked the bra, let it fall. Her breasts felt heavy, released. She pushed the briefs down her thighs, stepping clear. Naked, she faced the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
The light was cruel, clinical. She saw the slight softness at her waist, the pale stretch marks on her hips like silver ghosts from her pregnancies, the faint varicose map on the inside of one thigh. She saw the careful upkeep, the yoga-tightened lines of her stomach, the curve of her ass that Pilates had kept firm. She saw a forty-five-year-old body, used and maintained, a testament to effort and time.
She pulled the lace bodysuit up her legs. The material was a second, tighter skin. She worked it over her hips, the intricate straps a puzzle. She shoved her arms through, wrestled the sheer cups over her breasts, her nipples pebbling instantly against the scratchy lace. She fastened the single hook between her shoulder blades, fumbling until it caught.
She looked in the mirror.
The woman staring back was a stranger. The black lace cupped her breasts, pushing them up, the dark peaks of her nipples visible through the sheer floral patterns. The cut high on her thighs made her legs look longer. The open back plunged deep, a keyhole framing the dip of her spine. It was cheap. It was garish. It was the most potent thing she had ever worn.
She pushed the bathroom door open and stepped back into the light of the suite.
Bobby hadn’t moved from his chair. His eyes tracked her as she emerged from the shadowed doorway. His gaze was a physical weight, traveling from her feet, up her legs, lingering on the lace straining over her hips, climbing to her exposed chest, finally meeting her eyes. His face showed no expression for three long, heart-stopping seconds.
Then he let out a low, ragged breath. “Fuck me.”
He stood up. The movement was smooth, predatory. He closed the distance between them in two strides, stopping just short of touching her. His eyes were everywhere, devouring the details. “Turn around,” he said, his voice thick.
Molly obeyed, a slow pivot on the cool tile. She felt exposed, the open back a vulnerable expanse. She heard his sharp inhale.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. His fingers, when they touched her, were shockingly warm. They traced the line of the keyhole opening, from the nape of her neck down the knobs of her spine to where the lace ended just above the swell of her ass. The touch was light, exploratory, but it burned. “You are fucking unreal.”
He turned her back to face him. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs rough against her cheekbones. “You think you look like a whale?” He shook his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. “You’re a fucking miracle. That sad bastard is clinically insane.”
Then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. His lips were firm, insistent, his tongue pushing past her teeth without hesitation. He tasted of scotch and mint. One hand slid into her hair, fisting it gently at the roots, tilting her head back. The other hand dropped, palming her ass through the lace, squeezing the firm flesh with a rough, appreciative groan. Molly gasped into his mouth. Her hands fluttered, then gripped the hard muscle of his shoulders, holding on as the world tipped off its axis.
He broke the kiss, his breath hot on her lips. “You have no idea what you do to me.” His hands went to the thin straps on her shoulders. “This needs to come off. Now.”
He pushed the straps down her arms. The lace bodysuit peeled away from her torso, dragging over her sensitized skin. He helped her shimmy it down over her hips until it fell into a puddle at her feet. She stood naked before him, trembling.
Bobby’s eyes darkened. He looked his fill, his gaze hungry and direct. “On the bed,” he said, his voice a low command.
Molly moved backwards, her calves hitting the mattress.
Molly moved backwards, her calves hitting the mattress. The rose petals were crushed beneath her knees as she lowered herself onto the duvet, the fabric cool through the lace. She watched Bobby strip his henley over his head, the muscles in his shoulders and chest defined under the lamplight.
He was younger, harder than Derek had ever been. He unbuckled his jeans, shoved them and his boxers down in one rough motion. His cock sprang free, already fully erect, thick and ruddy against his stomach. The sight of it, so blatantly eager for her, made something clench deep in her belly.
“Look at you,” he breathed, crawling onto the bed. He loomed over her, his knees bracketing her hips. His hands slid up her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. “All this. For years. And that fucker just… didn’t want it.”
He bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth, suckling hard, his tongue working the stiff peak. The sensation was a live wire, arcing directly to her core. She cried out, her back arching off the bed, her fingers tangling in his damp hair.
“He’s an idiot,” Bobby muttered against her skin, his mouth moving to her other breast. He bit down gently, then soothed the spot with his tongue. His hand slid down her trembling stomach, through the coarse hair, his fingers finding her wetness. He groaned. “Fucking soaked. For me?”
“Yes,” Molly gasped. The word was a confession, a surrender.
“Good.” He kissed a trail down her sternum, over the gentle swell of her stomach. He nudged her thighs apart with his shoulders, his breath hot against her inner skin. She flinched, a sudden, sharp spike of self-consciousness piercing the haze. She tried to close her legs.
“Wait,” she whispered.
Bobby looked up, his face between her thighs. “What?”
“I’m… it’s been a long time. Since anyone…” She gestured weakly, her face flaming. “Since like this.”
A slow, understanding smile spread across his face. It wasn’t cruel. It was possessive. “Since he went down on you?” She nodded, shame curdling in her gut. Bobby’s smile widened. “How long?”
Molly closed her eyes. “Years.”
“Fucking criminal,” he murmured. He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh. “Just lay back. Don’t think about him. Think about my tongue. That’s all.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, pulling her firmly toward his mouth. The first broad, flat stroke of his tongue made her jolt. He licked her slowly from bottom to top, lapping at her wetness, exploring her folds with a lazy, thorough curiosity that felt nothing like the rushed, dutiful attentions she dimly remembered.
“Tastes so good,” he mumbled, his words vibrating against her. He zeroed in on her clit, circling the swollen nub with firm, precise pressure. Molly’s hips jerked off the bed. A broken sound escaped her throat.
“Oh God.”
“Not God. Bobby.” He sucked the tender bud into his mouth, flicking it relentlessly with his tongue. His hands slid under her ass, lifting her, holding her open for him. He feasted on her with a single-minded intensity, his nose buried in her, his stubble rough on her inner thighs. The wet, filthy sounds filled the silent room, louder than any words.
Molly’s world dissolved into sensation. The tequila, the scotch, the years of loneliness—they all combusted under the relentless heat of his mouth. Her hands fisted in the duvet, crushing petals to pulp. Her legs trembled violently over his shoulders.
“That’s it,” he growled, pulling back for a second. He was breathing hard, his chin glistening. “Come on. Let go. Come all over my face.” He drove two fingers deep inside her, crooking them, finding a spot that made her see white. His mouth descended again, sucking hard.
The orgasm tore through her with no warning, a raw, seismic force that shattered a decade of quiet. It was not a wave. It was a detonation. Her body bowed, a silent scream locked in her throat as her cunt clenched violently around his fingers, pulses of pure electric current convulsing through her. He didn’t let up, licking and sucking her through it, drawing out every last shock until she was sobbing, pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive and utterly ruined.
He finally lifted his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked down at her, her body still twitching, her chest heaving. “There it is,” he said, his voice husky with satisfaction. “There’s the woman he forgot about.”