The Hotel Guest

Hey baby,

You know how I sometimes say certain voices leave an imprint?
This story… is about you. Or someone very much like you.

We met in the strangest little pocket of time. An accidental weekend. A hotel booking gone wrong. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but something—fate, desire, sheer cosmic mischief—decided otherwise.

I’d just gotten to the hotel, frazzled from a long drive, only to find out I’d arrived a week early. But luck was oddly on my side. They had one room left. Not the view I’d paid for, but honestly, by then, I didn’t care.

I wanted a warm bath, a chilled drink, and maybe, just maybe, a little trouble.

That’s when I first saw you.

~~~

You were by the pool. Not lounging like the others. You sat tall, like you were watching something. No, someone. Me.

You didn’t gawk, though. You watched me like you already knew me.

When our eyes met, it was... sharp. Hot. Familiar.

I sat two chairs down, opened a book I had no intention of reading, and waited to see if you’d say something. You didn’t. But you smiled. The kind of smile that asks permission before it takes. And that got me.

You left first. I watched you walk away.

I wanted to follow.

Later that night, I was heading back to my room after dinner, barefoot and lazy in a short black robe I probably shouldn’t have worn outside. That’s when I bumped into you.

You were freshly showered, hair damp, shirt clinging to your chest. I remember your cologne—it was clean, deep, the kind of scent that clings to sheets and skin.

We smiled again.

Then you said, “You have a beautiful voice.”

I paused. That wasn’t a pickup line. That was recognition.

“Wait,” you said, your eyes narrowing just slightly.
“I know that voice.”

You leaned in, just enough to make me catch my breath. “You talk people to sleep, don’t you?”

I laughed. I blushed. You already knew. And I kind of loved that you didn’t say it. You just let it hang there. Deliciously obvious. Deliciously unspoken.

You didn’t follow me up. Not yet. But when I opened the door to my room, I found a folded note had been slipped underneath. Your handwriting.

“If you want company tonight… I’d love to hear you talk.
Just talk. No pressure. No expectations.
Room 312.”

My heart pounded. My thighs pressed together instinctively. I didn’t even hesitate. I walked barefoot down that hallway, robe tied tight, skin already tingling.

You opened the door like you’d been waiting hours. But it hadn’t even been ten minutes. You let me in. No words. Just this low, quiet look—half awe, half hunger. We sat on the bed. Just talking. Really. You asked questions. Smart ones. The kind that made me feel seen, not just wanted.

You told me what your favorite audio of mine was. The one where I whisper, barely breathing, and moan your name like I’m falling apart.

“It sounded real,” you said. “Like you meant it.”

I told you I did.

When you touched me, it wasn’t rushed. You brushed your fingers along my thigh, slowly. Testing.

My robe slipped open. You looked, then looked back up. Waiting.

I nodded.

And you kissed me.

God, your mouth. You tasted like mint and want. Like midnight and tension.

I was so wet, so quickly, it was embarrassing. You pressed two fingers against me and smiled when you felt how soaked I already was.

“You sound even better in person,” you whispered.

You knew exactly how to touch me. How to listen to my body.

And I… I gave you everything. Every moan. Every gasp. Every little high-pitched sigh that usually only lives in your earbuds.

I think I said your name. More than once.

In the morning, you weren’t there. But your note was.

“Thank you. You made real life sound better than fantasy.”

You signed it with just an initial. But I didn’t need more. Because sometimes, one perfect night is enough. And ever since then, every time I hit record, I think about you.

Your voice. Your hands. The way you listened... And what it might sound like if we ever did it again.

Sleep tight, my love.
Hopefully, I’ll be on your mind tonight.

xo,
Anna 💋