Dirty Thirty 1

Alexxa kicks off her heels, letting the day drain out of her feet. The bed looks soft and the silence stings. She grabs her phone and feels her stomach twist when his name lights up the screen—he won’t make it. Thirty minutes she’s already counted on just vanish. Her eyes slide toward the door as the bellhop lingers, key card still in his fingers. She asks if he’s free for a quick drink. The line crackles and she hangs up, tossing the phone onto the sheets. The bellboy swallows hard, door clicking shut behind him. She pulls her blouse open one button at a time and the dim light pools over her skin. She reaches for him, pushes him back against the wall, mouths his name like a dare. He drops his jacket and grips her hips, both of them already breathing like they’ve run a mile. Clothes hit the floor in sweaty heaps. She climbs onto the dresser and pulls him between her legs, heels pressed against his ass. The lamp shakes. She comes once with a low, angry moan, nails dug into his shoulders. He lasts thirty minutes tops—exactly the window she’s got—and finishes inside her, panting against her neck. When the high fades, she steps into the bathroom, runs the water, and tells him to go. The door shuts again. The room feels even emptier than before.