Dark Drippy Desires: A Collection of Erotic Stories

Arc 1: The Wrong Room My keycard said 412. I pressed four in the elevator. I counted the doors in the hallway. I did everything right and somehow I am standing in the wrong room staring at the most beautiful bare back I have ever seen in my twenty-six years of life. In a room that looks absolutely nothing like mine even though the card felt right. He hasn't heard me come in. He's on the phone, one hand braced against the window, the city glittering forty floors below him like someone scattered diamonds across black velvet. Broad shoulders. Dark tattoos scattered across pale skin, ink bleeding into muscle. Water still trailing down his spine from the shower, catching the light as it goes. A towel on the floor at his feet. Not around his waist. On the floor. He is completely, entirely, undeniably naked and I am standing in his doorway with my mouth open and my brain running approximately four seconds behind reality. He turns around. And God. I get the full picture before I can make the sensible decision to look away, and something in my chest does a slow, unhelpful roll, and my body processes what I'm seeing about three full seconds before my dignity has a chance to weigh in. He pulls the phone from his ear. Looks at me. Looks down at himself. Looks back at me. "Hi," I say. It comes out smaller than I intend. He doesn't scramble for the towel. Doesn't cover himself. Just stands there in his own skin completely unbothered while I stand in his doorway completely destroyed and tilts his head slightly. "Wrong room?" he asks. His voice is low. Unhurried. The kind of voice that does things to the backs of knees. "My card opened it," I manage. He looks at the keycard in my hand. Looks at me. His eyes drag down my body slow and shameless, from my face to my throat to my dress to my legs, and they come back up dark and interested and he still hasn't reached for the towel. "Front desk gives out duplicates sometimes." He puts the phone down on the dresser. "You should probably go sort that out." "Probably," I agree. Neither of us moves. The air between us has a specific quality. Charged. Heavy. The kind of air that exists in the two seconds before lightning. "I'm Dara," I say. Something shifts in his face. Almost a smile. Not quite. The suggestion of one, sitting at the corner of his mouth like he's deciding whether I've earned the full version yet. "Garry," he says. He bends down and picks up the towel and I watch him do it, watch every muscle in his back shift with the movement, and he straightens up and holds it in his hand and looks at me. Not wrapped around his waist... Just held... In his hand... Like he's offering me the choice. "You planning on leaving?" he asks quietly. "Or are you going to keep standing in my doorway?" My bag slides off my shoulder. Completely involuntary. The strap just gives up and the bag hits the floor and I crouch down to grab it and he moves at exactly the same moment, crossing the room, crouching right in front of me, and suddenly we are very close. His face level with mine, close enough that I can see the specific shade of his eyes and the water still caught in his eyelashes and smell the warm clean soap smell of his shower and something underneath that, something warmer, something that makes everything in my chest pull tight and inconvenient. He picks up my bag. He holds it out. Our fingers touch taking it and it's not accidental, the way his fingers curl just slightly over mine for one extra second, and that small deliberate contact goes through me faster than it has any right to. He stands. I stand. We are too close and the door is still open behind me and the smart thing, the obvious thing, is to take my bag and my keycard and my dignity and go find the front desk. "Do you actually want to leave?" he asks. His voice has dropped. Lower. Private. Like it's not for the hallway anymore. His eyes are on my mouth. My pulse is an absolute catastrophe. "I don't know what I want," I say honestly. His hand reaches past my shoulder. Slow. Giving me every opportunity to step aside or step back or say literally anything that would constitute a decision. He pushes the door shut. The click of the latch is the only sound in the universe. He looks at me and he sets the towel down on the dresser and crosses back to me, and the look on his face is patient and certain and dark with something I haven't been looked at with in a long time, and my heart is doing something medically concerning. "Come here," he says. Two words. My feet move. His hand curls around the back of my neck and tilts my face up and he kisses me and I feel it in every single part of my body simultaneously, deep and certain and slow, like he has already decided exactly how this goes and he is in absolutely no rush to get there, and I make a sound against his mouth that I will be thinking about at three in the morning for the rest of my adult life. His other hand finds the zipper at the back of my dress. "Yeah?" he murmurs against my lips. "Yes," I breathe. "God, yes." The zipper goes down. Arc 1: The Wrong Room continues in Chapter 2...