EPISODE THREE
1267 Words
A Mistaken Door
Maureen's shoes tapped unevenly on the marble floor as she stumbled inside the luxurious hotel, the city lights fading into flashes of color and gold. She grabbed the key card she had been handed earlier, hardly noticing the receptionist's worried expression.
Room 11. The guy at that bar had told her that when she had muttered drunkenly that she needed a place to sleep.
Her vision was unclear and the alcohol in her system made everything seem both distant and overpowering. She ignored the pounding of a headache that swelled in her head, determined to go to bed and shut out the world, even if just for a few hours.
Before she knew it, the elevator journey was done, the doors sliding open with a gentle ping that hardly rang. Glancing at the gold-plated numbers on the doors, she walked along the silent corridor. Eleven. Eleven. She stared at the wall: 111.
She swiped the key card, and the door. The only light in the room was the faint city light that came through the thick curtains. The air was heavy with the smell of expensive cologne, but Maureen was too tired to notice.
Her shoes fell on the soft carpet as she kicked them off and walked to the bed, burying herself in the silk covers.
Safe. Finally safe.
She hardly had the strength to cover herself with the blankets before falling asleep.
—--
Amos untied his tie and was startled out of his reverie by the sound of the door unlocking. He just needed a hot shower and a few hours of sleep after dealing with a demanding business event for the last several hours.
But he knew something was not right as soon as he entered his dimly-lighted apartment.
As he stepped further inside, his jacket fell off his shoulders and his piercing eyes went all over the room. Then he caught sight of her.
A lady, soundly sleeping, cuddled up in the center of his bed.
Amos froze, his fingers gripping the jacket more tightly. What on earth was happening?
He moved closer, seeing the way the blankets wrapped around her slim body and the soft motion of her black hair in the dim light. Her chest was rising and falling in a steady pattern as she breathed quietly.
Who is she?
He tightened his jaw. This was not a cheap hotel where guests could go into rooms without anybody noticing. Had security been negligent? Was this a set-up, or worse?
Something made him think twice before he woke her up and demand an explanation.
She did not seem to be an outsider.
She seemed lost.
She woke up suddenly, letting out a faint whisper as his fingertips lingered over her shoulder.
“George”...
Amos froze.
Who the hell is George?
She turned her face toward him, her features softened from sleep, and moved slightly. Then, as if seeing him, she grabbed him and touched the front of his shirt softly.
"You are back…" She was so tired that her voice was a whisper. "You left me alone for too long…"
With a sudden realization, Amos took a deep breath. She mistook him for another person.
His interest grew as much as his annoyance did.
How drunk was she?
He saw her body sink further into the blankets with a quiet groan. Her silk dress's strap had fallen over her shoulder, revealing her golden, flawless flesh. Her smell blended with the clean luxury of his bedding, a hint of vanilla and something kind of sweet.
Amos exhaled slowly.
He should wake her up. He should tell her she was in the wrong damn room.
Then, however, she pressed against him in a way that caused an unexpected rise in body temperature as she curled into him, her body instantly seeking warmth.
His jaw clenched as he made himself stay still.
She was clueless about her actions; she was in the wrong room, on the wrong bed, and with the wrong man, but she had no idea.
And for some reason, Amos Roger found that strangely fascinating.
This was a very interesting night.
Maureen let out a gentle sigh as she moved away from the warmth next to her, her fingertips brushing against hard muscle through clean cloth. She was drowning in the intoxicating combination of heartache, alcohol, and an intense desire to forget.
She whispered again, "George," drawing herself closer as her fingers gripped his shirt.
As her soft body pressed against his, Amos tensed up and his breath paused. The way she held him tightly made him hesitate, even though his intention was to push her away or wake her up and send her on her way.
She touched him in silent pain, an indirect plea that he knew too well.
She was not simply drunk.
She was broken.
She pressed her lips to his collar. "You are back," she whispered, barely touching him. "I thought you left me…"
Alcohol and something sweet lingered on her breath. Amos let out a sharp groan. Wondering whether to pull her away or leave her, his hands remained at her waist.
This was dangerous.
She was weak, open and obviously drowning in something deeper than just being drunk. Despite this, he felt a dangerous sensation from the warmth of her body against his and the way her fingers grasped his shirt, as though he was the only thing holding her to her reality.
He should stop this.
But when she raised her face and met his, with sleepy, dark eyes that were full of uncontrolled desire, something inside him fell apart.
She wasn't just looking for comfort.
She was seeking escape.
And Amos didn't want to be the one to deny it for the first time in his life.
"Don't go," she pleaded, drawing nearer. “ Not tonight
He couldn't hold back anymore.
With a gentle groan, he held the back of her head and pulled his lips down to hers, his fingers tangled in her soft hair.
The kiss was fierce and desperate.
Maureen's desire was too intense for Amos, making him groan deeply. Her fingers slipped into his hair, drawing him deeper into the kiss, as if she longed for his touch.
A sharp moan escaped from her lips as he dragged her on his lap, his hands firmly holding her waist. He noticed the heat coming from her skin, the constant beating of her heart, and the effortless way she arched into him.
Her mouth tasted of alcohol and the pain of a woman who was trying to forget something she couldn't bear to think about.
But something inside him made him become possessive when she muttered his name, George, against his lips.
He wasn't George.
But he would be whosoever she needed him to be tonight.
He caressed her back under the smooth silk of her dress with his hands as they wandered over her back. She let out a faint moan when
He brushed his lips down the neck, causing her body to tremble at his touch.
"Please," she muttered, gasping for air.
A plea.
A surrender.
And Amos gave in, against all reason.
The night faded into breathless moans, passionate touches, and the light caress of clothes against the skin. They both used each other to shut out the agony they didn't want to deal with, and he met her with equal passion as she pressed into him, lost in the heat of desire.
The world outside the suite faded.
There was no past, no scandal, no betrayal.
Only the fire between them.
- Writer
