I rubbed my legs together, trying to stave off the newly formed ache that bloomed at the apex of my thighs. There seemed to be eyes in every direction from where I stood, and I wondered if they could see the urge that had just come over me. Could they see the blush I wore like a scarlet letter? Luckily, there was no one directly next to me to be annoyed by the tempered drumming of my nails on the bar top.

“Here you are,” the bartender said carefully setting all three glasses in front of me. My smile lifted nervously as I unrolled my wad of money, counting out the bills to hand over.

“Oh no, your drinks are already paid for.”

“By whom?” I asked, looking around, assured that I would be able to spot said person who was obviously not buying my drinks just for charity.

I could tell the bartender was starting to feel uneasy about my questioning, as if I was putting him in a weird position by my inquisition, but after a deep breath, he leaned across the bar.

“How about I keep this drink,” he said, pulling one of the margaritas back closer to him and nodding to the other two just within my reach, “and you take those two back to your friends and return for this one.”

I felt my eyebrows furrow of their own volition as I took the drinks like I was possessed. My body didn’t even give my mind time to process what I was told before I was turning away from the bar, drinks in hand. It was only as I drew closer to our seats that it finally hit me, why would he offer a suggestion like that when I asked him who paid for my drinks?

“Where’s your drink?” Kerri asked as I set their drinks on either side of the lounge chairs. The lie fell easily from my lips, so easily it surprised even me. It was like a hiccup mid-sentence that I nearly covered my mouth in shock that I was capable of something so obviously disgusting.

“The bar ran out of limes. They’re running inside to go get some.”

“Oh, you can have my margarita. I’ll wait,” Piper offered.

“No. You sit. Relax. I can’t imagine it being that long.”

When I got back to the bar, the bartender was still there guarding my drink. Before I could speak, he pushed the drink closer to me and handed over a room key and a cocktail napkin. The writing on the napkin was a blur as he pressed them both into my hand. An image of a skeleton key was stamped on the room key with the Cosmopolitan’s logo, giving it the illusion of something clandestine and forbidden but also alluring. I could have also felt that way because of the gentleman benefactor who went through all of these lengths just to buy a few strangers’ drinks. Practically tossing the card aside at the forwardness of the suggestion, I uncrumpled the napkin—my curiosity getting the better of me—just to see what would accompany such a forward gesture. If I was a prostitute, my minimum would be a whole hell of a lot more than the cost of three drinks.

Room 913, pretty bird.

My head shot up, sweeping across the bar and pool to see if I could spot him. No one called me “pretty bird.” No one but him. Is he watching me right now? Did he somehow know I would be here? Do I want to see him? That question wasn’t even necessary; I knew I wanted to see him. My body had been screaming for him for weeks. Every time my phone rang at work and I didn’t recognize the number, every time I turned the corner to my block and noticed a car I didn’t recognize, every time I dropped down onto cold sheets at night—he shot across my thoughts like a bullet leaving bits of shrapnel in its wake, carving a bit of him into my everyday routine.

I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was near. The same feeling that kissed my skin earlier was back in full force, pulling me down with the strength of a runaway horse, and I was at a loss of the reins. I wasn’t so sure that I wanted to be in control of the feelings that were overcoming me. In that moment, I wanted to give in. The taste of his skin, his manly scent, the way he breathed against my neck and kissed me with those thick fingers that peeled me open like a peach. Just thinking about it had me ready to strip off my sarong and race up to the ninth floor to give his mouth something to feast on.

A few more glances later, I knocked back my margarita and beelined to the nearest elevator. There was a rush of bodies that passed me as they exited the elevator, and I raced in, hitting the “closed door” button like a gamer trying to get a combo. The doors slid closed, and I felt my shoulders ease back with the knowledge that another person wouldn’t be able to see or feel the energy rolling off of me like riptides. The walls and ceiling of the elevator were lined with mirrors that I avoided. I didn’t need to see myself to know how flushed I looked. I was more afraid to see the desperation lurking in the depths of my brown eyes. When I relaxed into the cold metal of the elevator—ignoring the icy steel piercing my shoulders and back like tiny icicles—the doors jerked and slid open to reveal him waiting just on the other side.

The air in the elevator was electrified—still, stagnant, and dry. It wasn’t the desert that created this feeling that my body was hovering just above the floor. Was it static? Was it the energy that passed between us like two magnets whose sole purpose was to connect?

He entered the elevator, eyes transfixed on mine as if he could measure my thoughts. I supposed he could. Just being in the elevator said everything he needed to know. He stepped closer, just inside the doors, and my eyes only dropped down when I saw that large fist of his slap the “close door” button as if he’d done this regularly. Perhaps he did. I wouldn’t put it past him. He had a body made for fucking, and this was the Chuck E. Cheese of playgrounds.

With a soft thud, the doors announced their closure and he pounced. One rushed step forward and he was on me, pushing me into the back of the elevator so hard I thought my insides would combust. That large hand wrapped around my neck, pulling me into his seeking lips. His other hand ripped off my sarong just as his lips closed down around mine, sucking me in like vacuum. He sucked my tongue, and I could have climbed his body right then and there with how needy I was. He kissed and nibbled around my mouth, extinguishing all the breath that surfaced, leaving me panting and scrambling, but not for breath. What I wanted was more. No, I needed it, more than the breath I was missing. I had missed him.

Every thought of why I shouldn’t have been in that elevator, let alone with him, vanished, snuffed out as surely as the breath I couldn’t seem to hold onto. Like hanging on the ledge by nothing but my fingertips, it was useless.

Pinned to the wall, my legs dangled uselessly above the ground. As Joel sucked at my neck and clawed his way down my body, I looked up and saw our reflection in the mirrored tiles of the ceiling, watching the way his shoulders bunched beneath his tight blue shirt while he gorged on my skin. No wonder I couldn’t spot him. He blended in with the uniforms the rest of the staff wore. Although, had I seen him walk by me, there was no way that body could slip past without garnering a second glance.

I moaned his name, aware of how my breasts vibrated against his chest with that one syllable, one word. Joel wore his restraint like a thinly veiled armor, the slight tremor of his chest displaying the lust he could barely contain. I knew what he was waiting for. It was the same thing that stopped me from climbing him right there in the elevator—the elevator could stop at any time before making it to the ninth floor.

Clutching his hair, I held him in place, taking control. If we were doing this, I wanted to be present and participating for every bit of it because as soon as the moment washed away like ships set to sea, I knew I would be done.

I was quenching a thirst; that was all. It was just something, anything to hold me over. The throb may have started between my legs, but every day I woke up, it seemed to consume more and more of my body until it seemed like if my chest were open you’d be able to see the bruising with your own eyes.