What Happened in That Hotel Wasn’t on the Agenda

The conference in Valencia had spent three days devouring their hours, and Lucía was starting to hate the smell of bad coffee in the hallways. She worked as a consultant at a software firm, the kind that sends its top people to close deals far from home, and she had ended up traveling with Diego. She’d known him for a year, just enough to know he was brilliant in a meeting room and dangerously easy to look at when he loosened his tie.

That afternoon, the last presentation had dragged on until the room was emptied out. PowerPoint slides no one would remember, figures repeated like a mantra, and through it all, the looks. Diego watched her from the far end of the table every time she spoke, and Lucía felt that attention on the back of her neck like a hand resting on her skin.

—We survived —he said when they finally stepped out into the lobby—. Dinner? I refuse to eat another minibar sandwich.

—Only if there’s wine —she replied, and hated herself a little for the smile that slipped out.

They ate at the hotel restaurant, facing a window wall overlooking the lit-up city. A bottle of red between them, candles at half-light, and a conversation that stopped being about work far too quickly. Diego told her about his recent divorce with a honesty that disarmed her. She told him things she never told anyone at the office.

There was a silence that stretched longer than it should have, one of those silences that says more than any sentence. Lucía played with the stem of her glass, suddenly aware of every gesture she made, of how she crossed her legs under the table and how her skirt rode up a little when she did. Diego noticed. He dropped his gaze for a second and lifted it again, and in that brief movement she felt a heat that had nothing to do with the wine.

—Do you know what’s worst? —he said—. I’ve spent the whole conference trying to focus on the figures and I haven’t managed to stop looking at you in a single meeting.

—You shouldn’t say things like that to me —she answered, though she didn’t want him to stop.

—Probably not —he admitted, never taking his eyes off her.

At some point, when she passed him the salt, his fingers brushed hers and neither of them pulled away right away.

—You’re different tonight —Diego murmured, in that deep voice he used in meetings to close deals.

—I’m tired —she lied.

She was not tired at all.

They went up together in the elevator. The silence turned dense, charged with everything they had gone months without saying. Lucía watched the numbers light up—four, five, six—and felt the warmth of his body just inches from hers. When the elevator stopped on the seventh floor, she was the first to turn her head.

She never knew who made the first move. She only knew that suddenly his back was against the mirror and his mouth was on hers, and that the kiss was nothing tentative. Diego’s hands found her waist, pulled her close, and Lucía felt the unmistakable shape of his desire against her stomach.

—We shouldn’t —she said without moving even a millimeter away.

—I know —he replied, and kissed her again.

The doors opened. They walked down the corridor without letting go, stumbling, laughing from nerves, until they reached Lucía’s room door. It took her three tries to get the key card to work. When they went in, the outside world ceased to exist.

***

Diego pressed her against the wall with a tenderness that contradicted the urgency of his mouth. He unbuttoned her blouse one button at a time, slowly, looking into her eyes as though he were asking permission with each one. The fabric fell to the floor. Underneath, she wore a black lace bra that he first traced with his eyes and then with his lips, kissing her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the edge of the fabric.

—I’ve spent months imagining this —he confessed against her skin—. Every meeting, every flight. I thought I was the only one.

—You weren’t —she replied, her breathing already ragged.

He knelt in front of her. He lifted her skirt with both hands, slowly, until her thighs were exposed, and kissed her through her underwear, right where she was already wet. Lucía let out a rough sound and tangled her fingers in his hair. Diego moved the fabric aside and ran his tongue over her, first in one long, deliberate stroke, then in slow circles that made her arch her back against the wall.

—Like that, don’t stop —she begged, her voice breaking.

He didn’t stop. He added two fingers, curling them to find that exact spot that made her squeeze her eyelids shut, while he kept working her with his mouth. Pleasure climbed her legs in waves until her knees gave out. Diego held her by the hips and guided her to the bed before she could fall.

Lucía took the chance to return the favor. She undid his belt, pulled down his trousers, set him free. She stroked him with her hand, feeling him pulse, and when she lowered her head and took him into her mouth, Diego let out a curse through clenched teeth and buried his fingers in her hair.

—Stop —he panted after a moment—, or this will be over before it starts.

She smiled, lay back, and drew him to her. Diego positioned himself between her spread legs, paused for a second to look at her, and drove into her with one slow, deep thrust that tore a groan from both of them at once.

—Fuck —he whispered in her ear—. This is so much better than I imagined.

He began to move with a steady rhythm, unhurried, letting her feel every inch. Lucía dug her nails into his back and hooked her legs around his waist, wanting him deeper. The headboard knocked softly against the wall, the sound of their bodies filled the room, and she no longer thought about the contract, or the office, or the consequences.

—Look at me —he asked, and she opened her eyes. Holding his gaze while he drove into her body was almost too much.

—I’m going to... —she started, and didn’t finish the sentence.

The orgasm hit her all at once, intense, clenching around him, and Diego had to stop for a moment to keep from following her immediately.

***

When she caught her breath, he turned her carefully, lifted her hips, and entered her from behind again. The new position let him go deeper, and Lucía buried her face in the pillow to smother a louder moan than the ones before. Diego stroked her back, moved her hair off her neck, and kissed her shoulder while he moved.

—Stay like that —he murmured—, I don’t want this to end.

She pushed back, meeting every thrust, and slid one hand between her own legs. The second climax caught her before she could anticipate it, longer than the first, and this time it dragged Diego with her. She felt him tense, grip her hips hard, and let go with a muffled groan against the back of her neck.

They collapsed onto the tangled sheets, breathing out of sync, skin shining with sweat. For a while they said nothing. Lucía traced a distracted line across his chest with her finger, and Diego stroked her back with the tips of his fingers.

—Tomorrow we’re going to have to look each other in the face in front of the client —she said at last, and laughed at the absurdity of it all.

—And in front of half the department when we get back —he added—. Do you regret it?

Lucía thought about it. She searched inside herself for the regret she was supposed to feel, the kind dictated by the company’s unwritten rules, and found none of it anywhere.

—No —she admitted—. And you?

—I’d spent a year regretting not doing it sooner.

***

They didn’t sleep much. Dawn found them tangled together again, this time without the urgency of the first time, with a calm that was more frightening than desire. Later, under the hot water of the shower, he held her against the tiles while the steam blurred everything, and Lucía thought she would never look at a conference hotel the same way again.

When the sky began to lighten over Valencia, they lay entwined, too awake to pretend they were going to sleep.

—We close the deal in four hours —she reminded him against his chest.

—And then we’ve got a flight back —Diego said, and by his tone she knew he wasn’t thinking about the plane—. Three hours, no meetings, no clients.

Lucía smiled against his skin. She knew that back at the office there would be furtive looks, supposedly accidental brushes beside the coffee machine, the careful choreography of two people who share a secret. She knew it was a bad idea, the kind people only talk about in whispers and never in writing.

But she also knew that when someone asked her how the trip to Valencia went, she would say it was productive, and keep to herself the only part that really mattered. Some confessions are never made out loud. This one, she decided as he held her tighter, she would keep entirely to herself.