The key you left on the bedside table

The key you left on the bedside table

Come closer. I don't want to shout this. I want to tell you how things are said that burn: stuck to your ear, with your mouth almost rubbing you, so that only you know.

It was in Valencia. Room 417 of the hotel in front of the port. You had come down to sign I don’t know what last minute paperwork and you left the key on the table, next to the glass of water and my loose slope. “Don’t throw the latch”, you told me, with that half smile that always disarms me. “I want to find you as it is”.

I stood up for a while, looking at the door. The air conditioning made a low noise, almost like a breath. I took off my black dress slowly, as if you were still looking at me. I left my underwear alone: black lace panties that you had chosen for me that very morning and the bra that fastens in front. I sat on the edge of the bed, with my legs crossed, and waited.

When I heard the card pass through the slot, my skin was raised whole. Not out of fear. For wanting. You entered without making noise, you closed with the insurance and you stared at me. I didn’t say anything. I just opened my knees a little bit more and held your eyes.

"Tell me you want this," you whispered.

"I want it," I answered, "clearly." I want you inside, slowly first, and then as if there were no tomorrow.

"I love you like this. Open. Mine tonight.

You knelt between my legs without asking for permission because you already had it all. You kissed the inside of my thighs, first one, then the other, with that patience that drives me crazy. When you came to the lace, you rubbed it with your nose and breathed deep, as if you smelled something sacred. I ran a little alone with that. You noticed it. You smiled against my skin.

• You're already wet.

"Since you came down," I admitted.

You took off the cloth with your fingers and licked my center with the flat tongue, slow, from the bottom up. I grabbed the white sheet and arched my back. I didn’t scream; I gasped against the back of my hand, because in the hotels the walls heard and I wanted only you to hear. You stuck a finger, then two, looking for that point you know better than I do. You fucked me with your hand while you ate me, and I looked at you from above, with my hair glued to your forehead, saying to you without words that you wouldn’t stop.

When I ran the first time she was quiet and deep, with her legs shaking on both sides of your head. You held my thighs so they wouldn’t close. You kept licking until the tremor became another wave, shorter, sharper. Only then did you get up, take off your shirt and pants with precise movements, and you were naked in front of me.

Your cock was hard, heavy, with a glowing drop on the tip. I got in, took you with both hands and sucked you without hurry. I like the taste of your skin when you've been wanting all day. I looked into your eyes as I took you deeper, relaxing your throat, letting you rub my face a little. You groaned low, that sound you only make when your head really goes off.

"Get in," you said.

I climbed up. I strutted over you, guided you to my entrance and lowered an inch to an inch, feeling how you opened me. When I was sitting at all, we stood still for a second, face to face, breathing the same air. Your hands on my ass. Mine on your chest.

"Move," I asked.

You started slowly, pushing up as I surrounded it. The brush was perfect: deep, wet, with that obscene skin-to-skin sound that fills a hotel room and makes it ours. You kissed my neck, you bit my shoulder without dialing too much, you whispered in my ear how beautiful I was riding you, how much you liked to feel squeezed.

We accelerated. I would pull back, leaning on your thighs, so that you would go deeper. You would look at my chest bounce and squeeze my hips hard. When I felt like I was going to run again, I told you:

• Now, don't stop.

You held me and fucked me from below with short and precise blows until I got rid of you, contracting me around you, wetting you even more. You didn’t stop me. You turned me carefully, you put me four in bed and you came in again with a single push. You grabbed my hair with one hand and the waist with the other. I pushed back, asking you more, asking you to use me as you knew I liked that night: eagerly, loudly, with my mouth open against the pillow.

"Tell me you're mine tonight," you grunted.

"I am yours," I answered, broken with pleasure. "Yours. Don't stop."

You ran inside me with a long groan, buried to the bottom, your hips shaking. I felt every pulse. I stood still, full, with my face on the sheet and your chest stuck to my back. We stayed like this for a while, sweaty, listening to the air conditioning and the boats far from the port.

Then you left slowly. I turned. You cleaned me with the towel of the bathroom, with a tenderness that always contrasts with what beast you can be when I ask you. We got under the sheet. You turned off the light of the bedside table. The key was still there, next to the glass.

"Next time," I whispered against your collarbone, "don't come down. Stay and look at me while I take off my dress.

You smiled in the dark and pressed me more against you.

That's what happened, love. That's what I did with the key you left me. And every time I'm alone in a hotel room and hear a card in the slot, I get chicken skin the same way. Because I know what comes next. Because I know how your breathing sounds when you come in and find me waiting for you, open, telling you yes with all your body.

Don't tell it. Or tell it only if someone asks you why you smile when we passed that hotel. I already confessed everything to your ear. Now sleep. And leave the door unlocked next time too.