Peter Langston was a man of precision—timely flights, structured meetings, and the same hotel every time he travelled into the city. The Grand was more than just a place to rest; it was a ritual. The staff knew him well enough to greet him with warm familiarity. “Good evening, Mr. Langston,” the concierge would always say with a smile. “Your usual suite is ready.”

But tonight was different.

A delayed meeting had kept Peter in traffic well past sundown. When he arrived at The Grand, the lobby was a buzz of laughter, clinking glasses, and music. The hotel was hosting an office party in full swing.

Peter, wheeling his carry-on, nodded to the front desk staff as they fumbled apologies for the crowded reception. "No problem," Peter assured them with a slight grin, "I've seen worse."

A shrill voice broke through the noise as he moved toward the elevator. A woman, no more than thirty, in a crimson cocktail dress, was hissing through clenched teeth at a man wobbling beside her.

"Mark, you're drunk. Again," she snapped. The man laughed sloppy, spilling part of his drink down the front of his shirt.

Peter paused, watching the scene unfold with concern. It wasn't the first time he'd seen a party guest take it too far, but something about the woman's expression—distress mixed with humiliation—made him stop.  

The man lunged to grab her arm. She flinched.

“Excuse me,” Peter said, stepping in like a well-dressed knight in tailored Armor. “Is everything alright here?”

The woman’s eyes met his, pleading silently, Peter stepped in,

Mark scoffed, slurring his words, “Mind your own fucking business, old man.”

Peter didn’t flinch. “I think it’s time you called it a night.” His voice was low, calm, but unyielding.

The hotel manager, who had known Peter for years, appeared almost magically. “Mr. Langston, is there an issue?”

Peter gave a subtle nod toward the drunken man. “This guest seems to be making things uncomfortable for people around him.”

The manager acted quickly, ushering Mark away with the help of a security guard. The woman stood frozen, breathless, and shaken.

Peter turned to her. “Are you alright?" he asked in a gentle, soothing voice.  

“I, yes. Thank you. I didn’t know what to do.” Her voice trembled slightly, but she carried herself with poise.

She was effortlessly stunning, a beauty that didn't demand attention. Her chestnut hair cascaded in soft waves around her shoulders, catching the low light with hints of auburn, perfectly framing eyes that mirrored its warmth, filled with quiet fire and mystery.

“Would you like somewhere quiet to sit for a bit?”

She nodded, and he guided her across the dining room to a door marked Private Dining. She looked utterly at ease yet impossibly captivating. Her silky, form-fitting dress clung to her elegant frame with a daring thigh-high split that revealed glimpses of toned legs with each graceful step.

The party sound dimmed as they entered the elegant, hushed room with soft lighting and untouched linens. Peter dimmed the lights further, letting the ambient glow settle like a velvet curtain around them.  

"Thank you," she said. "I'm Emily. Lovely to meet you, Peter."

He offered her a seat and poured her a glass of water, but before long, they had moved on to champagne. He called for discreet room service. 

Shortly, a gentle tap on the door and a waiter came in.

"Might sir like to order for two, is it?" Andy, the waiter, never called Perter sir; it was a code between them for trouble; as he said it, he silently looked at the door. 

Peter understood: "They do a nice lobster here. They are locally famed for their succulent lobster, perfectly prepared every time. It's a must-try for seafood lovers."

"How lovely!" She smiled. "Lobster and Champaign, my birthday might be a good evening after all."

The bottle popped quietly, and Peter filled their flutes.

“To unexpected evenings,” he said.

“To knights in tailored suits,” she replied, smiling for the first time since they’d met.

They ate and talked, and slowly, the distance between them shrank. Peter's charm wasn't pushy; it was polished. He listened. He made her laugh. He asked questions and genuinely waited for the answers. His voice was a low hum of confidence, and his eyes, focused entirely on her, made her feel like the only woman in the world.

They noticed soft music filtering through hidden speakers: slow jazz, barely noticeable at first, but then the rhythm caught their attention.

“Dance with me?” Peter asked, standing and extending his hand.

Emily hesitated for a second, then placed her hand in his.

"I'm a married woman," she remarked to remind him to behave.

"A charming and beautiful one at that," he replied, offering a slight bow and smile, his eyes looking into hers.

He held her gently, one hand on her waist, the other guiding hers as they moved in slow, lazy circles. The room seemed to dissolve around them.

“This is... surreal,” she murmured, her cheek close to his chest.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he whispered back.

She looked up at him. “Are you always this smooth?”

He grinned. “Only when the company inspires it.”

As they danced, their bodies drew closer. The distance between them thinned with every passing minute until she could feel the firmness of his frame pressed against her. His hand on her back dipped slightly lower, fingers brushing the curve of her hip.

She caught her breath; she wanted to say "stop," but the words would not form.

He didn't say anything, but his body spoke for him. There was a quiet intensity in the way he moved, the way he held her. Emily felt it, his arousal, gently pressing against her mons, rubbing against her, a slow rhythm in time with the music. Sending a pulse of warmth through her chest, down her back.

It took her unawares, a warm feeling deep within, an orgasm developing, needing to take her, Emily struggled against it, but Peter was not oblivious; he felt her stiffen, her head falling to his chest. Her legs slightly weakened somewhat as she gripped Peters’ hand, her lips parted, but she said nothing.

Peter pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. “If at any point, you want to stop—”

She shook her head, silencing him with a single look. “Don’t.” 

They danced longer, closer now. The air between them was charged. Her hand slid up to the nape of his neck, her fingers brushing the edge of his silver hair. His lips grazed her temple, then her cheek.

Then, finally, her mouth.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't awkward or fumbling. It was deliberate, slow, and hungry. She kissed him back with a surprise that melted into curiosity, then into something bolder. 

Peter deepened the kiss, tasting the champagne still on her lips. His practised and patient hands explored her back, waist, and thigh line. Emily pressed against him, her body responding instinctively. Her heart pounded in her chest; adrenaline, excitement, freedom—it felt so right.

As the music shifted, he pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against hers. “We don’t have to rush this.”

“No,” she said softly, “but we don’t have to stop either.”

He took her hand, kissed it, and led her gently out of the dining room, through the private hallways, and into the elevator. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

When the elevator doors opened on the 9th floor, Peter escorted her down the familiar hallway to his suite, which he always stayed in. Now, it was glowing with the quiet intimacy of what the night had become. 

Once inside, Emily slipped off her shoes and stood barefoot by the window, looking over the city lights. Peter approached her from behind, his hands resting on her waist.

“Still surreal?” he murmured.

She turned to face him. “No. Now it just feels... inevitable.”

He kissed her again, and this time, there were no interruptions, no hesitation.

Two people in a hotel above a sleeping city found something neither had been looking for. Still, both were willing to lose themselves.

Peter's kiss deepened, slow and certain. His lips coaxed hers open as if unlocking something she didn't know she'd closed. Emily melted into him, her arms slipping around his neck, her chest rising with his as their bodies aligned. His hands explored the curve of her back with the lightest of strokes until he found the clasp of her dress.

The moment he released it, a shiver ran down her spine. She didn’t feel the air on her skin—only the heat rising from within.

As the fabric slipped away, she stepped back just far enough to look at him—eyes dark with wanting, breath caught between hesitation and need.

Peter didn’t ask. He didn’t rush.

He simply swept an arm behind her knees and lifted her into his arms with effortless grace. Emily gasped softly, her body instinctively folding into him, clinging tighter, her cheek brushing his jaw. Her lips found his throat, pressing a kiss into the warm pulse of it as he carried her toward the bed—each step a promise.

The suite was silent except for their breath and the faint rustle of fabric. He laid her down gently atop the silky duvet, her chest rising and falling with anticipation. He followed her, stretching beside her, never breaking eye contact. There was heat in his gaze, but something tender, too. It was a look that made her feel wanted, not just desired.

He kissed her again, slower this time, relishing every inch of her lips before trailing down to her neck, then across her chest. Emily’s fingers tangled in his shirt, tugging at it, craving the feel of his skin. He obliged, shrugging it off, revealing a body that pressed warmly against her.

Her body awakened beneath his, her breath coming quicker, hips shifting subtly toward him. She could feel the wetness of her pussy growing between her thighs; her arousal was undeniable. The ache, the wetness, the sweet tension building inside her, it all throbbed for more.

Peter sensed it, too. His touch remained to tease, deliberate, and never rushing, letting his fingers skim her inner thigh, ghosting just close enough to drive her mad but not give her what she craved.

“Please, Peter…” she whispered, her voice breathy with want.

He smiled, leaning in to kiss just beneath her ear. “I know,” he murmured, his voice a seductive caress. “I want to feel you surrender slowly.”

She whimpered, her fingers digging into his back as he kissed lower, inch by inch, his mouth exploring her like a man tasting a dessert. Her hips began to move with the rhythm of his teasing, her body seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him.

Her juices coated her panties between her legs. She was not wet; she was soaking, aching, completely immersed in his seduction. And still, he played, drawing circles with his fingers on her firm breast, her nipples hard to the touch. Brushing over the waistband of her panties, dipping low, then retreating, watching her squirm with need.

She had never felt so exposed, so worshipped, so alive.

Peter's lips moved lower, dragging a fire trail along her skin from the delicate slope of her neck down to the gentle rise of her chest. Emily's fingers threaded through his hair, her breath catching as he took his time, worshipping her body with his mouth. He lingered at her curves, reverent and unhurried, as though he were memorising the taste, the texture, the very essence of her.

Her skin tingled under his every touch, every kiss. He treated her not like a conquest but a wonder to explore, his fingers skimming her waist, his lips brushing the edge of her ribs, drawing tiny shivers in their wake. Emily arched into him, her body no longer shy but pleading in the most silent, delicious way.

Emily's body trembled, not from fear, but from surrender, an eager, breathless yielding to their building intimacy. Her thoughts melted into sensation, her senses heightened. She was utterly present, aware of the heat pooling within her.

Peter raised his head briefly, locking eyes with her, searching and asking without words. Emily answered with her own look: tender and filled with trust. That was all he needed.

He moved lower, placing a kiss on the inside of her thigh, soft and slow, letting his lips linger as she gasped, her fingers tightening in the sheets. Her legs shifted, opening further, inviting him in without saying a word. Every breath she took now was laced with hunger.  

Peter hovered just above her pussy, letting the tension build, breathing in the intoxicating scent of her arousal and the wetness of her panties, undeniable, natural, and laced with desire. She felt herself throb under the weight of that moment, utterly consumed by the sensation of being so seen, so wanted.

His mouth descended again, not with urgency, but with exquisite care.

Peter slipped between her thighs, spreading them with a gentle firmness that made her shudder in anticipation. His hands slid up the inside of her legs, fingertips grazing skin already humming with need.

She gasped as his breath brushed against her soaked panties—he hadn’t even touched her yet, but the sheer anticipation made her hips twitch toward him. Her jounces ran to the point of aching, wet heat pulsing beneath thin lace.

Peter took his time, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the crease of her thigh. When his lips finally reached the soft fabric between her legs, she moaned softly against it.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick with reverence.

Emily whimpered, her back arching.

He dragged his tongue over the lace—long, slow, deliberate—drawing a cry from her throat. She gripped the sheets, trembling.

With exquisite care, he hooked his fingers beneath the waistband. He peeled her panties down, exposing her swollen pussy folds to the cool air and his hungry gaze.

Peter didn’t hesitate.

He buried his mouth between her legs with deep, devastating intent. His tongue moved with purpose—lapping, tasting, claiming—circling her clit in slow, torturous spirals before plunging lower to drink from her completely. He moaned again as her taste filled him.

Emily cried out, her thighs clamping briefly around his head, her body surging up against his mouth. But Peter only groaned, hands gripping her hips, holding her in place as he devoured her like a man starved.

His tongue worked in tandem with his fingers—two sliding deep, curling, coaxing. His thumb pressed softly, then firmly against her clit in rhythmic circles. The slick, obscene sounds of her arousal filled the room.

“Oh, Peter… Oh, God…” she gasped, her voice barely human.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.

Her orgasm hit like a flood—her hips bucking, breath shattering, every muscle in her body seizing around the relentless ecstasy of his mouth. Her cries turned to gasps, her hands in his hair, her thighs trembling as wave after wave broke through her.

Still, he didn’t stop.

He licked her through it, drinking every drop, pushing her past the edge again until she was sobbing his name, breathless, lost in time.

Only when her body collapsed fully into the bed, limbs limp and chest heaving, did he pull away—his mouth glistening, his eyes dark with hunger and pride. 

“You taste like sweat, honey,” Peter murmured against her thigh, his breath a soft scorch. His lips lingered there, worshipful, teasing.

Then, he rose over her — slow, deliberate — his body moving with the grace of a predator who already knew he had her. Emily opened her eyes and met his; she saw it all clearly in that stillness.

His hard penis brushed against her, hot and thick, gliding along the slick folds of her swollen pussy, not entering, just teasing. Sliding between her lips with unbearable precision. She gasped, hips twitching up to meet him, instinct overriding hesitation.

Peter didn’t say a word; he didn’t need to.

His cock pulsed against her open entrance, gliding up to stroke her clit, then back down again, slow and deliberate. Over and over. He coated himself in her warm jounces, making sure she felt every vein, every inch, just waiting.

Emily caught her breath, her mouth parted, eyes wide.

She wanted to say "stop," or "wait," or anything — but the words dissolved before they ever reached her lips.

Peter leaned in, lips brushing her ear, his voice low and unshakable.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

And with one long, aching stroke, he dragged his length over her again, making her body sing with need.

The way he moved, the deliberate strength in his arms, the pressure of his thigh brushing hers in rhythm with the music… it was impossible to ignore. His arousal was no longer a suggestion; it was a presence. And it pulsed against her with each slow turn, pressing between the lips of her pussy like a silent invitation.

A flush spread through her—hot, electric, undeniable. Her body responded before her mind could resist. Her hips moved almost imperceptibly toward his, drawn by gravity or something stronger.

Then it hit her.

A warmth was low in her belly. A rush. Not full orgasm,  but a mounting ache she hadn't expected—not in his arms. Her breath caught, and her thighs tensed. Her body was on the verge of something impossible on that silken bed.

Peter felt it: the subtle change in her breathing, the way her head fell softly against his chest, her grip tightening around his hand, her knuckles white, and her lips parted.

He didn’t push. He didn’t gloat.

Instead, he slowed their sway, holding her tighter, more securely.

His mouth was near her ear now, his voice a dark silk. “Emily…?”

She didn’t look up. Didn’t speak.

Just nodded once—barely, but enough.

Peter pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. “If you want to stop—”

She silenced him with one glance.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

She gave herself over to the warmth and rhythm of his devotion, her body rising and falling beneath him in waves of pleasure that only deepened with time. She was no longer just a woman recovering from a difficult night; she was a goddess being adored, with every inch of her lit by passion and every breath pulled deeper into the moment.

Emily lay trembling beneath Peter, her body humming with bliss, her skin aglow with the aftermath of wave after wave of sensual pleasure. Her breath came in soft gasps, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling as though she'd been running—not from fear, but into freedom. Every inch of her felt alive. Sensitive. Aware.

“Is this what you’ve been hiding from me all night?” she whispered, teasing, her voice a sultry velvet ribbon between them.

Peter smiled, leaning down until their lips were nearly touching. “You’ve earned every inch,” he murmured against her mouth.

She kissed him then, deep and slow, her hand still wrapped around him, guiding, discovering. There was no shame, only hunger. Her body moved to meet his again, the soft heat between her thighs pulsing, aching to be filled.

“Peter…” she whispered, barely able to form the word. “Oh… my God…”

She came in waves, each stronger than the last, long, pulsing, uncontrollable. Her thighs trembled violently as she bucked against his penis; Peter stayed with her, long slow strokes going deeper as he dared. Quickening the pace and deliberately grinding into her swollen mons

Emily gasped, then cried out—a sound caught between a moan and a whisper—as the waves of her orgasm overtook her, pulling her under like a tide she no longer tried to resist. Her body arched, trembling, her breath ragged as pleasure rippled through her in soft, uncontrollable bursts.

They were both trembling; Peter let go, flooding her cervix, and Emily, flooding her juices, joined Peters.

Only when her body had softened, only when her hands slid limply away from his hair, did he begin to rise. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and dark with lust. She lay still, catching her breath, feeling Peter inside her, then gave a giggle as he slipped out of her.  

Peter then lay on his side, one arm draped across Emily's waist, his face nuzzled close to the slope of her shoulder. Her skin was warm, glistening faintly with sweat, and he kissed it slow, lazy, affectionate. Emily shifted slightly, curling into him, her body limp with satisfaction.

Neither spoke for a moment. There was no need. Their silence was full of wonder, of afterglow, of something unspoken but understood.

Then Emily let out a soft sigh, equal parts exhaustion and disbelief. “I don’t think I can walk after that..”

Peter's lips brushed her ear. "Was that too much… or just the right kind of ruin?"

She laughed, low and throaty, her fingers absentmindedly brushing his arm. “Both.”

He kissed her neck again, then pulled back to look at her. "You're incredible, you know that?"

She rolled her eyes playfully. "You're just saying that because I didn't cry halfway through."

“No,” he said seriously. “I’m saying it because you trusted me… because you let go. That’s rare.”

Emily’s expression softened. She turned to face him fully, her leg sliding between his, their bodies fitting back together like they had always belonged that way. 

Emily gave a little shiver; Peter reached down and pulled the bedding over them.

“There,” he whispered, “now it’s just us… warm, tangled, and exactly where we’re meant to be.”

“I haven’t felt like that in… a long time,” she admitted. “I forgot I could even feel like that. Like I was alive. Like I wasn’t just… someone’s wife. Or someone’s disappointment.”

Peter brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You weren’t just alive, Emily. You were radiant.”

She blinked at that. “Radiant, huh? That’s dangerously close to poetry.”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

She grinned, then gave his thigh a playful squeeze beneath the covers. “Oh, I noticed.”

He groaned softly and shook his head. “Careful, you’ll wake the dragon.”

“Already? That thing needs a nap.”

“Trust me, he’s stubborn.”

Emily laughed again, then her voice turned softer, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. “Was it like that for you? I mean… was I…?”

“You were everything,” Peter said simply. “And more than I expected.”

She swallowed. “I don’t know what this is… or what it means. But I don’t regret it.”

“Neither do I.”

They fell into a comfortable quiet, limbs entangled, hearts slowing in tandem. Outside, the glow of the city stretched on forever, but inside, time seemed suspended. It wasn't morning yet, but it wasn't quite night anymore.

Emily stretched out slowly, pressing a long kiss to Peter's breast before nestling back down.

“You smell like me,” she murmured.

Peter smiled. “That’s because I refused to come up for air.”

“Greedy.”

“Desperate.”

She tilted her head up, resting her chin on his chest, her eyes studying him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why me? You could have any woman in this hotel.”

He looked at her with a calm sincerity. “Because the moment I saw you, standing in that chaos, fire in your eyes, trying to hold it together, I knew you were the kind of woman who had forgotten how much power she really had.”

Emily blinked, stunned into silence. “And you wanted to remind me?”

“No,” he said gently. “I wanted to see you remember.”

Her lips parted slightly. A flush rose in her cheeks, but not from embarrassment. This time, it was emotion—gratitude—maybe even something dangerously close to affection.

"You don't make it easy to return to real life."

Peter's voice dropped husky with a hint of mischief. "Then don't go just yet."

She gave a soft laugh. "If I stay, we're not leaving this bed until noon."

"Promises, promises," he murmured, kissing her head.

Emily sighed again, content now, her fingers slowly lacing with his beneath the sheets.

“I forgot what it feels like to be touched like that. To be… seen.”

Peter tilted her chin until she was looking at him. “Then let me be the one to keep seeing you. At least for tonight.”

She didn't answer immediately, but she didn't pull away either. She nestled into him, lips brushing his chest as her eyes closed.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Just for tonight.”

A few quiet beats passed before Peter smirked and said, “Unless you change your mind in an hour.”

She laughed, eyes still closed. “Give me twenty minutes and a drink of water, and I might just surprise you.”

“Oh, I have no doubts.”

They did surprise each other, twice more, in fact.

By the time the room was silent again, it was well past midnight. The city below might as well have ceased to exist; up here on the top floor, there was only stillness. The heavy curtains remained open, letting the bright light of the moon spill across the bed in a soft, silver glow. Outside, the sky was clear and endless, the stars distant, watching. Inside, their bodies lay tangled and flushed, breathless in the hush of a night that seemed to hold its breath with them.

Emily sat up, brushing her hair back from her face, a sleepy smile playing at the corners of her lips. Peter stirred beside her, propped on one elbow, eyes soft as he watched her.

“You’re not sneaking out, are you?” he asked.

Emily gave him a playful look. “Do I look like the sneaky type?”

“No,” he said, admiring the gentle curve of her back. “You look like the kind of woman who leaves a mark.”

She laughed quietly, standing to collect her dress from the floor. “Well, if I’ve left anything, it’s a dent in your mattress and possibly a bruised ego.”

“Ego intact,” Peter said, grinning as he leaned back on the pillows. “Barely.”

She walked toward the en-suite, hips swaying just enough to suggest she wasn't in a rush. When she returned a short while later, she was fully dressed again, hair and makeup left untouched.

"My, going out like that" Peter smiled knowingly at her.

But something was different now. Her eyes were softer, her posture lighter.

"Because I can," she replied.

Peter watched her quietly. As she slipped on her heels, his voice broke the silence. “You’re really going back?”

Emily turned toward him, fastening an earring. “I have to.”

“To him?”

She gave a small shrug. “It’s still my house. My life.”

Peter swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood just in front of her. “I’m not judging, Emily. I just don’t want you walking back into something that hurts you.”

She met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “He’s not dangerous, Peter. Not really. He’s just... broken. Sad. Loud when he drinks, pathetic when he doesn’t drink.”

“You say that like it makes it okay.”

"I say that like I've lived with it long enough to know; I have known him since college," she replied softly. Then, after a beat, she said, "He's a puppy when he's sober."

Peter frowned. “That doesn’t mean you owe him your happiness.”

“I know.”

He reached out, brushing a fingertip down the line of her jaw. "You have more power than you think, Emily. This… What happened last night? This wasn't about escape. This was you remembering who you are."

Her lips parted slightly. “I think I needed someone to see that.”

“I did,” he said, then added, “and so did you.”

She nodded slowly. Deep and unspoken gratitude was in her eyes. She stepped closer and kissed him, a kiss that didn't linger with lust but with something warmer—a promise. A maybe.

“Walk me down?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Peter threw on a white shirt, not bothering to button it all the way, and together, they stepped into the hall. At this hour, the hotel's corridors were hushed, the late-night silence wrapping around them like a blanket. The carpeted floors muffled their footsteps, and the only signs of life were the soft hum of distant elevators and the occasional flicker of light from behind closed doors.

When they reached the dimly lit lobby, Peter instinctively moved toward the main entrance, though the world beyond was still cloaked in the quiet velvet of the night.

But then—

“Mr. Langston,” came a familiar voice.

Andy, the night waiter from earlier, emerged quietly from behind the reception desk. His demeanour was discreet but knowing, his gaze flicking briefly to Emily before returning to Peter with his usual professionalism.

"Good evening again, sir," Andy said smoothly. "I suggest you use the restaurant entrance at this time. I'll have a taxi brought around discreetly. Rowdy nightclubs turn out unwanted drunks, I am afraid."

Peter gave a grateful nod, the corners of his mouth lifting in appreciation. He knew Andy's tone; it was courteous but protective. No one needed gossip at this time of night.

Emily smiled faintly, wrapping her coat a little tighter. “You run quite the operation here.”

Andy offered the hint of a smile. "Only when necessary, madam."

Moments later, they were led through the restaurant, now in darkness. The polished glamour of the hotel was traded for soft lighting and silent tables.

"Through here, sir, " Andy opened a small side door.

The door opened to a side lane with little lighting. Under the moon's silver gaze, a black cab waited.

Peter held the door for her.

She paused, turning to him. “Thank you… for everything.”

"To remind you who you are?" he asked gently.

She nodded.

"You don't have to forget this happened," he said, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. "And you don't have to return to anything that dims your light."

Emily smiled sadly. “Maybe next time, I won’t have to sneak away at 2 AM.”

“I’ll be here,” he said. “Whenever next time comes.”

With one final look, she stepped into the cab. Peter closed the door behind her, watching as it pulled away under the quiet glow of the moon until the night swallowed its taillights whole.

End of Part I