The anticipation makes my hands tremble as I sit riveted to the plush leather chair. The large clock above the bar across the marbled floor in the hotel lobby reads 18:35. The hubbub of the hotel guests may have quietened to idle chatter and clinks of glasses, but the pounding of my heart has not, her messages burned into my brain. The things she promised to do if we were ever alone.

I know we shouldn't meet: there's so much to lose. We have spouses and kids to think about. But she let slip she'd be in town on business, within five miles of my house. I couldn't pass up the chance to see her. Even once.

The excuse I spun to visit the city came easier than I expected. The lie was bought and here I am, sweating, jigging my foot uncontrollably. What if I'm not what she expects?

I can barely think straight, mouth dry despite the dregs of a soft drink down which beads of condensation roll. Alongside, a lone Scrabble piece sits, pulled from the pile on the table. Would she notice my clue? My online avatar. The only visual link to my hitherto concealed identity.

Movement by the elevator draws my attention. Heart leaps. Pulse quickens. Somehow I know it's her. Beautiful in that pencil skirt and blouse. Buxom. Shapely. Wavy highlights catch evening sunrays through Velux windows. Her heels click, each one a bullet ricocheting off the inside of my skull. I can't help staring. She feels it. Looks my way, a flash of something or nothing before I tear my gaze away then return to see her paused, mouth slightly agape. Has she guessed who I am?

Our eyes meet across the room. That connection shared in our cyber chats somehow magnetic in the cold reality of whatever the fuck I'm doing here. I want to get up. Run to safety. Beat some sense into myself. Instead, I sit. Watch her approach in slow motion. Fifteen feet. Ten. Until she's towering in front of me, and Coco Chanel is the only scent in the room.

She's now sure, eyes widening. The hint is enough. With a quivering hand, I reach and slide the tile towards her. She stops its travel and our fingertips touch. It's like a fucking electric storm has been set off inside me. I want to take her upstairs, rip her clothes off, kiss and lick and fuck her all night. But I can't. We just can't. That would be the end of my marriage. Thrown away over a stolen evening with someone I barely know; a million characters typed back and forth, steamy sessions that leave us both breathless, yet I don't know her favourite colour.

A dirty smile forms on lips that make my heart melt. Our eyes remain locked. I so fucking want her, thankful the table conceals the extent of my raging hardness. I watch her nail polish glinting in the lobby lights as her hand moves to the jumble of letters and draws three more, rearranging them with my avatar to form the word wait. And then she's gone.

I daren't move. Can't move. Mesmerised by her beauty, her touch, her radiance. Blood hammers through my veins to my dick.

I've no idea how long it is until she returns. Minutes? Hours? The torment makes it difficult to tell. Leaning over the table, teasing me further with ample cleavage, flashing that loaded grin, I watch her fingertips select and rearrange some tiles to spell yours. Her other hand slides a pair of knickers across the table to me. They're warm. And wet. I can see the gusset glistening and nearly pass out from excitement. She knows what it'll do to me. Her used underwear has been a staple ingredient of our kinky shared fantasies.

My fingers are trembling as I walk them to the material. Caress it as if still hugging her sexy body. I'm consumed by lust. Insanely hard. Nothing else exists in the universe but my fingertips, cock and her sticky panties.

I snap out of my reverie. Look around but she's gone. I'm so horny. I jump up, scattering Scrabble pieces to the floor, amid stares from nearby patrons, but I'm beyond caring. I race to the nearest toilet and lock myself in.

The material shakes in my hand. I lift it to my face. Inhale deeply, feeling my cock swell and surge as her scent filters into me, never to leave.

And then my face is in them. Licking. Tasting. Dreaming. Fuck, it's intoxicating. I whip out my cock and jack it furiously, staring at myself in the mirror above the washbasin. Hazel eyes burn back, my breath ragged through gritted teeth. The smell and taste of her cunt trapped inside the underwear fuels hedonistic thoughts of us fucking for hours. Her owning my body. Sitting on me. Grinding those hot panties against my lips and tongue as she floods the fabric with sweet, squirting nectar that she forces me to suck and drink from the gusset.

Fuck, I'm totally under the spell of her scent and taste. I feel a groan forming, my balls tightening and there's no holding back. I spray come wherever it lands. Such a fucking release, her soaked knickers stuffed against my face as rope after rope slashes from me. Fat globules splat against the mirror, partially obscuring my reflection, and drizzle down its surface as uncontrollable lust for her spews from the pulsing head of my stiff cock.

My body judders as the orgasm wanes, legs weak, hand gripping the washstand for support. Ecstatic. Drained. Alive.

Her scent continues to envelop me, long after I pocket the garment and attempt some semblance of cleanup, flushing the wadded evidence of infidelity.

Returning to the table, I collect the scattered Scrabble tiles, sweeping them into the drawstring bag. But not before I notice one more word spelled on the table surface:

stay.

Do I?