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I imagine the impure thoughts I’m having about her this second are written all over my face. How I would love to make her forget all that bullshit and just lose herself in me. In a moment of pleasure. She is clearly so used to being in control of all her actions… I wonder if she would enjoy being directed, guided, told what to do. If she would obey.
I watch her skin flush across her chest, her pupils dilate a fraction as she leans in closer and I smell the sweetness of her perfume mixed with the scent of her, knowing she can smell me too. I feel her breathing me in too. My head spins faster and I feel intoxicated.
“Bourbon on the rocks. Room 586,” a man calls. His voice is close but the words sounded distant. I want to ignore him, to focus on Dahlia, but I can’t. The moment is broken, but it happened and we both felt it.
Over the next few nights, Dahlia did prop up my bar. Each night when I returned from my break, she was there on the end waiting for me in her slacks and tee with her red hair swept up into a messy bun. She never gave anything away though she was there for hours. Sometimes she was content in the silence. I felt her eyes on me, watching me work. I saw her watching other guests and making polite small talk with the men who tried to approach her. But, she didn’t look at them the way she looks at me.
Other times, she talked and talked. It was hard to get anything done around her. Her soft southern drawl kept me enraptured. I am not someone who says that much anyway but that didn’t faze Dahlia in the slightest; she was happy to be the one to keep the conversation going.
But I noticed how guarded she was. She told me things but they were never personal, never about her or her life. Always her opinions on things, a view from afar, but nothing that felt real. I couldn’t put my finger on it but for how open Dahlia was… all I could feel was an impenetrable wall.
She isn’t gay—but then again I’m not totally sure that is how I’d define myself—but there is a spark between us. I feel it whenever I see her. At first, I assumed it was one sided. Coming from only my desires and my want to touch her, feel her, taste her. Of course I do. Probably everyone does. Because of how she looks. Because of who she is. Because of the sensuality she exudes.
But I caught the way she looked at me once when I was working, I felt her gaze skim over my body, her eyes were glazed with lust, and I was sure then that she felt an attraction to me too.
The intensity for me has only built. My total intrigue into her grew with each passing moment and I now find myself obsessed with the details of our conversations. I can’t stop thinking about all the things she said and more so all the things she didn’t say.
With men, they are rarely shy in an invitation to their rooms. In fact, they seem to think that this is my first rodeo and I have never had a guy casually offer me a key card as he leans over and whispers the room number. (It happens all the time.) I smile and do my best to act surprised. I sometimes wonder if they wait for me in their room or if they know by my eyes when I take the card that I never had any intention at all of actually meeting them.
With women, the dance is different, and for all of her confidence and show, I felt like Dahlia was secretly hiding her low self-esteem, and I wondered if that would stop her from ever asking me to spend time with her privately. I wasn’t shy; I was confident in my body and who I was, but I didn’t want to cross a line with a hotel guest. Especially when she was so high profile. However, as the week sped by and I knew time was ticking for her leaving, I decided to bite the bullet.
“You know I can’t make you a cocktail tomorrow night,” I say the following Sunday as I serve her up a mojito.
She looks at me in mock shock. “You mean you are leaving? Running away? Gone and never to be seen again? Ooooh, this is good,” she adds with a satisfied moan as she takes a deep sip of her drink.
I appreciate the satisfied moan and it makes me imagine other things.
I laugh. “No, it’s my day off,” I reply as I feel the slightest of flush to my cheeks at her gasp of pleasure. She leans in a little closer with a playful grin.
“Yeah, I figured they might let you take, you know, one night off a week.”
I nod and then lean in a little closer. “I do get the night off, and I don’t have plans. So, if you want a cocktail, I can still make you one. If you wanted.”
Dahlia is an actress; if she has any surprise at my offer, she doesn’t let a flicker of it show. She acts as though my proposition is exactly as she expected and responds in the same way as if I had asked her about the weather.
“I have a nice bar in my room I am sure we could make use of. Why don’t you come up tonight and see if we need to get it stocked with anything special in preparation?”
I nod with a smile and continue with what I was doing, but my mind is in overdrive. I haven’t shaved, I certainly am not wearing my best underwear, and I really would have preferred to have taken a shower before… Oh, what am I thinking? Making drinks, flirting, and perhaps making out doesn’t mean we have to do anything more. Just because I want that to happen doesn’t mean it has to be tonight. There is time.
The good thing about us both being women is that whilst platonic friendships with guests are not encouraged it is definitely less frowned upon than fucking the guests. It is much easier to sell a ‘friendship’ between two females as purely platonic. That means when I take the elevator up after my shift to Dahlia’s penthouse suite, I am much bolder and obvious with what I am doing, because I feel like if I am more brazen with our friendship it would seem less suspicious.
Dahlia left the bar a couple of hours earlier so it is just me. I’m still in my work skirt, but I pull on a sweater over my blouse so I look a little less like staff and a little more casual. I only tap twice on the door before it swings open and Dahlia greets me with a coy smile. Her eyes meet mine and the look we share is loaded.
“Come in, quick. I don’t want to get my favorite cocktail connoisseur sacked.”
“Oh, it’s okay, we are allowed to be friends with the guests as long as we respect the boundaries.”
She’s wearing the same clothes as earlier, but she has touched up her makeup and let her hair down. It is so long, it cascades in thick red curls over her shoulders and down her back. I almost reach to touch it, wanting to feel the softness in my palm as I wrap her locks around my hand.
“Is that what you want to do, Alexa? Respect the boundaries?”
She asks me casually as she perches at her private bar. She is staying in the largest suite I have seen in the hotel. It’s like an apartment, the social area being nearly the size of my entire apartment. Everything is expensive, the finishing oozing in class and elegance.
“I don’t particularly care for hotel boundaries. I am much more interested in what yours are.”
Her eyebrow raises an inch but she doesn’t comment, instead, she moves, making her way around the bar.
“How about a little roleplay? You can sit pretty on the stool and I will make you a drink. Alcohol or virgin?”
