The Review Was Inaccurate

I never planned to become the girl who got blackout drunk and f****d a stranger in a hotel room. Yet there I was, four vodka tonics deep, sitting on a high barstool in a downtown hotel that smelled like money and poor decisions. My phone still glowed with Daniel’s last message: It’s over. Don’t call. Four years. Four years of being the good girlfriend. Of waiting for a proposal that never came. Of swallowing every red flag because I thought loyalty would be enough. He’d been f*****g someone else for months. I found out the hard way — walking into his apartment with takeout and catching them on the couch. So I came here. Alone. Dressed in a tight black dress that made my t**s look better than I felt. Determined to drink until the ache in my chest turned into something quieter. The bartender kept sliding me drinks. I kept throwing them back. The burn felt honest. Better than the hollow space Daniel left behind. A presence settled on the stool next to mine. Tall. Broad shoulders under a dark shirt. The kind of cologne that didn’t scream for attention but still made my drunk brain pay attention. I didn’t look up. I didn’t care who it was. “You’re crying into your vodka,” a low voice said. Smooth. Controlled. Slightly amused. “I’m not crying.” I wiped under my eyes with the back of my hand, smearing mascara. “I’m hydrating. There’s a difference.” A soft chuckle. “Mind if I sit?” I shrugged. “Free country.” He sat. I finally glanced sideways and almost choked on my drink. Fuck. Dark hair, a little longer on top, sharp jaw, mouth that looked like it knew exactly how to ruin someone. Green eyes that didn’t soft-focus when they landed on me. He was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. Expensive. Controlled. “Mason,” he said, like the name itself was both introduction and warning. “Esti.” I lifted my glass in a half-assed toast. “Recently dumped. Currently self-destructing. Pleasure.” His mouth curved. “Lucky me.” We didn’t talk about feelings. We didn’t talk about work or families or any of the bullshit people pretend matters when they’re trying to get into each other’s pants. We talked about nothing important — the music, the city, how hotel bars were designed for bad decisions. His thigh pressed against mine under the counter. My hand landed on his knee and stayed there. The air between us got heavier with every drink. “You want to get out of here?” he asked eventually, voice lower now, rough around the edges. I looked at him. Really looked. The smart answer was no. The drunk answer was already climbing off the stool. “Yes.” The elevator ride was quiet. Tension thick enough to choke on. His hand rested on the small of my back, not pushing, just there. Claiming space. When the doors opened on the top floor, he led me down a hallway that smelled like clean linen and money. His suite was massive — floor-to-ceiling windows, dark furniture, city lights spilling across everything. I barely registered any of it before the door clicked shut and his mouth was on mine. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was hunger. Pure and immediate. I kissed him back like I was trying to erase every memory of Daniel. Like I could f**k the ache out of my chest if I just got f****d hard enough. His hands gripped my waist, then slid under my dress, rough palms against bare skin. I moaned into his mouth when he cupped my ass and pulled me against him. He was already hard. Thick. Pressing against my stomach. “f**k,” I whispered. “That’s the plan.” He walked me backward until my thighs hit the bed. Then he turned me, unzipped my dress in one smooth motion, and let it fall to the floor. I stood there in black lace bra and panties, alcohol-fueled bravery the only thing keeping me upright, while his eyes dragged over me like he was deciding where to start first. “On the bed,” he said. I sat. Then lay back when he pushed my shoulders down. He stripped without rush — shirt first, revealing a broad chest and defined abs that looked carved under the low light. Belt. Pants. Boxers. His c**k sprang free, thick and already leaking at the tip. My mouth went dry. He climbed over me, knees bracketing my hips, and kissed me again while his hand slid between my legs. Two fingers pushed my panties aside and found me soaked. He groaned against my mouth. “Christ. You’re dripping.” “Shut up and f**k me.” He didn’t. Not yet. He dragged my panties down my legs, tossed them somewhere behind him, then lowered his head. The first long, slow lick made my back arch off the mattress. He didn’t tease. He ate me like he was starving — tongue flat against my c**t, two fingers curling inside me, stretching, searching for that spot that made my thighs shake. I came hard and fast, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping the sheets, a broken moan tearing out of my throat. He didn’t give me time to recover. He rose up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and reached for a condom from the nightstand. I watched him roll it on, the latex stretching over his thick length, and felt a fresh pulse of want between my legs. He settled between my thighs, the head of his c**k nudging my entrance. “Last chance to change your mind,” he said, voice rough. “Don’t you dare stop.” He pushed in. Slow at first. Stretching me open inch by inch until I was full, until the burn mixed with pleasure and my nails dug into his shoulders. Then he started moving. Deep, controlled thrusts that hit exactly where I needed. I wrapped my legs around his waist and met him stroke for stroke. The wet sound of skin on skin filled the room. His mouth found my neck, then my breast, sucking hard enough to leave marks while he f****d me. “Harder,” I gasped. He gave it to me. One hand pinned my wrists above my head. The other gripped my hip hard enough to bruise as he drove into me like he owned the right. The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady, filthy rhythm. I came again with a broken cry, clenching around him so tight he groaned. He followed moments later, burying himself deep and coming with a low, rough sound against my throat. We stayed like that for a long minute, breathing hard, bodies still joined. Then he pulled out, disposed of the condom, and collapsed beside me on the sheets. I should have stayed. Should have slept. Instead the old panic crawled up my spine — the fear of morning, of being seen, of being the girl who needed more than a stranger could give. I slid out of bed while he was still catching his breath. Found my dress. My panties. My purse. On the nightstand I left two hundred-dollar bills and a folded note in the hotel notepad: Thanks for the average d**k. Consider this payment so you don’t feel used. Petty. Mean. Exactly what a girl who was still bleeding from a broken heart would write when she didn’t want to feel vulnerable. I didn’t look back when I left.