Love in Extra Time by Yael Maritz-An Erotic Short Story

Chapter Two

The door clicks shut behind me, and the sound rings through the twelfth-floor hallway like a starter pistol. My heels sink into the carpet with each step I take toward the elevator, and I press my hand to my heart, feeling it skip beats with my mix of heady desire and frustration. My skin still carries heat from standing so close to him, from the steam that clung to the air in the suite, from the oh so brief feeling of my fingers on his toned chest where water beaded on his muscle and tattoos.

The elevator doors part. I step inside. The mirrored walls throw my reflection back at me — blouse wrinkled at the waist where my arm bent against the contract folder, hair loose past my shoulders, small beads of perspiration above my parted lips. I look like someone who just did something she shouldn't have.

Yet, I didn't. That's the problem. And it feels worse than before.

I didn't do anything except stand there and admit out loud what I've spent three years trying to deny to myself. I sigh with self contempt as the lobby doors slide open. The morning light cuts across the marble floor in long amber slats. I cross through the revolving door and step onto the sidewalk, the strap of my bag digging into my shoulder, the contract folder tucked under my arm like it’s clamped in a vice. My car sits three levels down in the parking structure. I somehow drive back to the hotel where David is having meetings all day. I'm on autopilot, still dazed from what just happened. I work to keep my hands steady on the wheel even as my thoughts drift back to the wet strands of his hair, the scar above his left eyebrow, the way his voice dropped when he said he'd imagined me every day. 

Did he really say that? Yes. He did. I watched his lips move as he said it. And then I found myself imagining what those lips would feel like on my skin. A rush of lust soon flooding me, and I could feel wetness forming between my thighs, dampening the delicate lace of my panties.

My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as tried to push the thoughts out of my head, choosing to focus on my breathing instead. It was time to go to work. That’s where my head needed to be at. Not fantasizing about a football player my boss represented. I loved my job and worked hard to get where I’m at. I was on the threshold of being minted as an agent. I knew it and David had said it himself. It would be foolish to let a crush get in the way of my achieving my dream.

Back at David’s hotel, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead in the conference room. He was on the sponsor call I had scheduled for him at 8am and would be so for at least another hour.  I quietly present the signed contract for him to review— the red tabs still visible, Mateus's signature slanted sharp across the bottom line. He gives me a thumbs up and motions that the call is going to take a while. I move to the other end of the long marble table, 8 chairs down and pull out my laptop. I settle in to one of the chairs, hearing the gentle creak of the buttery soft leather. I scan the first of 14 unopened emails waiting for me. I read the first sentence once, twice, and then a third time, it’s contents still not able to penetrate the fog in my brain. Try as I might to fight them, my thoughts (and longing) are still back in that hotel suite with Mateo. The scene keeps playing on repeat, over and over. 

Twenty-one days until the tournament was over. Twenty-one days until the protocols lift. Twenty-one days until I can walk up to Mateus Silva and not have to pretend I'm only doing so for professional reasons.

Over the next 8 hours my mind keeps wandering to Mateo, peppered with brief interruptions from David to help me stay on task with my job. I welcomed them, I needed to focus on something else. Wanted to focus on something else. Truly. It was a bigger challenge than I expected. David asks if I want to get a drink in the hotel bar to go over the sponsor negotiations from his morning phone call. I accept, welcoming the distraction as well as the chance to learn more from him. He was exceptional at his job. There was no doubting that. He was getting ready to retire soon and I welcomed his knowledge anytime he gave it.

The drinks turned into dinner, with David’s wife and daughter joining us. My family lived faraway and I was always missing them. Spending time with David’s family always softened that sting. They were a loving bunch, always smiling and laughing. They welcomed me from day one as one of their own it felt like, and I’ve always been grateful. This was David’s last tournament-though he had not stated it outloud-we both knew it had been implied. He didn’t want to work another four years. Perhaps one at best.

After we say our goodbyes, I drive back to my hotel — the same one where Mateus is staying, because David booked us into the same building “for convenience”, he said. The universe has a wicked sense of humor sometimes but I sure am not laughing. I stand in the elevator, my hand pausing before pressing the button to my floor. My room is on the seventh floor. His suite is on the twelfth. My finger hovers over the 12 button briefly. With a yearning sigh, I press 7 instead, my teeth clenching. “Five floors and 20 days still between us”, I say under my breath, watching the numbers rise on the digital screen overhead.

I push the door open to my room, dropping my bag on the bench by the entrance, and slip out of my heels with a sigh of relief. The carpet is soft under my feet. I unbutton my silk blouse on the way to the bed, shrugging it off and letting it pool on the floor behind me. I toss my phone on the bed before unzipping my tight black pencil skirt, peeling it off of me with welcome release.  I stand in my lace bra and thong, the air in the hotel room cool against my skin before crawling on the bed, ready for this day to be over.

My phone buzzes.

The screen shows a text from a number I don't recognize — no contact name, no photo, just a string of digits with a local area code.

Meet me at the rooftop bar. -M

My thumb hovers over the message as I feel my stomach flip. The rooftop bar sits on the fifteenth floor, a glass-walled lounge that overlooks the city skyline. It's open to hotel guests and their visitors. Public. Visible. Anyone could walk in — a teammate, a journalist, Maybe even David himself. He was known to be a nightowl, regardless of his age.

I set the phone on the nightstand with a shaky hand before walking to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. The mirror shows my cheeks flushed, the skin above my collarbone pink. I press a damp hand towel against my neck and close my eyes.

He signed the text with an initial. Not his full name. Plausible deniability if someone else saw it. But I know that initial. I know the way he forms letters — the sharp downstroke, the way the pen lifted off the page when he signed the contract. The same hand that signed David's endorsement deal just sent me a message telling me to meet him in a bar.

I look in my closet and choose the one dress I always have with me just in case the occasion for it comes up. A bias-cut silk dress that skims my curves with effortless grace—soft, understated, and just polished enough to look as though I hadn’t tried too hard, but also not wanting to look professional. And the best part, I don’t have to wear a bra with it. 

I leave my hair down intentionally. It’s medium brown with a few golden highlights from the sun. It sits to just below my braline-if I were wearing one. I slide into a pair of kitten healed sandals — the thin ones with the ankle straps, the ones that click against tile like a metronome. Lastly, a small dab of pink gloss on my lips to finish off the look. I take one final glance in the mirror and feel my heart almost stop with regret. 

What am I doing? Is this worth risking my career for? And his?!

I guess there’s only one way to find out. Opening the door to the hallway, I fight through the panic and somehow manage to get to the elevators. I press the brightest button, lit up in gold with the logo of the rooftop bar and let out a soft exhale as the car begins to lift, fighting the urge to turn back–against willing the elevator to move faster.

The rooftop bar glows amber and indigo. Recessed lighting along the ceiling mimics starlight, and floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city below. A bartender polishes glasses behind a curved counter. Two couples sit at high tables near the far wall. Jazztronica plays from hidden speakers, a saxophone curling through the air like smoke.

I scan the room and the second I spot him, that familiar wetness begins to immediately seep into the wisp thonged panties. 

He's at a corner table, half-hidden behind a partition of frosted glass and potted bamboo. Fully dressed — dark trousers, a fitted shirt the color of deep charcoal, the top two buttons undone. His hair is dry now, pushed back from his forehead, and the scar above his eyebrow catches in the soft light. His eyes find me before mine find him. Dark. Like smoke. His eyes sparkle approvingly as I make my way towards him.

The wave of desire hits in a way that makes me almost feel dizzy. I try to focus on the steady click-clack of my heels walking on the marble floor, my hips swaying with each step. He doesn't stand. He watches me approach the way a man watches something he's been anticipating yet surprised— still, focused, eyes gazing at my face and then lowering to my curves, his drink sitting untouched in front of him.

"You came," he says when I reach the table.

"You texted,” was my clever reply, not succeeding in keeping my nervousness quiet.

"I didn't think you would." He pulls out the chair beside him — not across, beside — and I sit. The partition blocks us from the rest of the bar. The bamboo casts thin shadows across the black tablecloth.

"Well, you’re hard to say no to. Although, we both know someone could have seen that message," I say, as I tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear. He watches, his face softening as he does. I see his hand flinch, almost as though he’s thinking of pulling it back out. 

"New SIM card. Disposable. I bought it this afternoon." His voice is low, accented, the Portuguese vowels rounding the edges of his consonants. "No one knows that number except you."

“I’m not sure if I should feel flattered or intimidated. Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

My eyes search his briefly and then slowly move downward. I drink him in. The shirt fits close to his shoulders, and I can see the edge of the tattoo through the fabric where it stretches across his left side. His hands rest on the table — callused palms, long fingers, the knuckles slightly pronounced. Hands that have spent years gripping a ball, controlling it, sending it exactly where he wants it to go.

"No, it’s not like that at all, he says as he moves closer, his dark eyes on mine. “Listen to me…I can't stop thinking about what you said," he murmurs, leaning closer. His knee presses against mine under the table. The contact sends a jolt up my thigh. "About waiting. About three weeks."

"We agreed." My voice comes out more shrill than I intend.

"I know what we agreed." His hand moves from the table to my knee, the heat of him almost making me jump. His thumb traces a slow circle against the inside of my knee, and I have to force my muscles not to lock. "I was in my room trying to review the match footage. But…I couldn't concentrate. Every time I paused the video, my mind would replay the vision of you standing in my doorway this morning. And what would have happened if you stayed longer.” His eyes soften as he says this, and a slow, lazy grin spreads over his gorgeous face. I can feel myself worrying less about the risk in meeting him here and instead wanting to take him back to my room so he could show me what would have happened if I did indeed stay longer. Along with a few delicious thoughts of my own admittedly.

His hand slides higher and I bite my lower lip to hold in a gasp. His fingers brush the outside of my thigh, then curve inward, tracing where the slit of my dress opens. I grip the edge of my chair and glance around the bar. The bartender is fifteen feet away, his back turned, wiping down a shaker. The couples at the far tables laugh at something one of them said.

"Mateus —"

"I can’t wait three weeks." His mouth is close to my ear now,close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath. His fingers easing up my dress to my innermost thigh. I know he can feel the penetrating heat between my legs. "I want you, Amanda. I need you.” The first part he speaks softly, the second-he almost hisses through clenched teeth. There is a fire in his eyes that I cannot deny. Nor do I want to.

My fingers dig into the seat cushion as a heady wave of lust washes over me. I can feel the heat pooling between my legs, the fabric of my tiny underwear soaked from my want of him. His other hand finds the small of my back, gently pressing me to closer to him.

"If someone sees us —" I start.

"No one's looking." His lips graze the shell of my ear. His hand on my thigh slides inward, his knuckles pressing against the damp lace between my legs. My hips tilt forward without my permission. His other hand grabs mine and guides it down between us so the back of my hand grazes against his thickening cock. "I've been hard since you left my room. I took two cold showers. TWO, Amanda. It didn't help."

I swallow hard. His fingers trace the outline of me through the wet fabric, and my breath catches. He presses his thumb to my clit and begins to rub in slow circles. My thighs clamp together around his hand and I bite my lip again. This time to stifle a moan.

"Mateus." My voice is weak with need. "Your career. The protocols. If your manager finds out —"

"Shhhh….Amanda, stop. I don't care about the protocols." His jaw tightens as his eyes grow even darker. His finger pushes the flimsy lace aside and slides against bare skin — hot, slick, aching. My head drops forward, my forehead almost touching his shoulder. "This isn’t just about sex. Although yes, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a bit part of it right now. But, it’s more than just that. I care about you. I've cared about you since the day you tripped over that rug and laughed at yourself in front of David's entire office."

He continues his manipulations my clit. Slow. Deliberate. The friction creating sparks up my spine. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound. My ears are ringing. I just want him to take me to his room. I want to belong to him. I just want him inside of me. My resistance is beginning to soften.

"I want you," he breathes against my neck. "Let me take you downstairs. Let me —"

"No." I grab his wrist. My fingers barely close around it. "No. We have to wait, Mateus."

His hand stills. His finger rests against me, not moving, and I can feel my own pulse beating against his knuckle. I pull back far enough to look at his face. His jaw is clenched. His eyes are jet black in the low light, the pupils blown wide. His lower lip is wet where he's been biting it.

"If we do this here, now, and someone finds out —" I keep my voice steady, even though my body is screaming. "Your manager pulls you from the tournament. David loses the endorsement deal. Everything you've worked for, everything I've spent three years helping David build for you — gone. Because we couldn't wait twenty-one days."

His nostrils flare. His chest rises and falls under the charcoal shirt. His finger twitches against me, and I clench my jaw against the wave of sensation.

"Twenty-one days," he repeats.

"Twenty-one days." I pull his hand away from my skirt and hold it between both of mine. His knuckles are warm and damp. "And then I'm yours. Completely. No protocols. No contracts. No David between us. Just you and me and …." I let last part just hang in the thick air between us.

He stares at me. His thumb turns over inside my grip, stroking the center of my palm. The crease between his eyebrows softens. He exhales — long, controlled, the kind of breath a man takes before a penalty kick.

"You are killing me," he says.

"You'll survive." I release his hand. "You're an athlete. Endurance is literally  part of your job description. And it’s not just you who's dying here.”

A sound escapes him — half laugh, half groan. He lifts his glass and drains all of whatever's in it. I smooth my skirt of my dress down, cross my legs, and trying unsuccessfully to ignore the throbbing ache between my thighs.

"I'll count the days," he says.

"I already am."

I leave first, wanting to scream out loud once alone in the elevator. My whole body quivering with overwhelming desire and then forced denial. My hands are still shaking when I slide the keycard through the reader.

The door closes behind me. The room is dark. I don't turn on the lights.

I sit on the edge of the bed and unstrap my heels. My fingers fumble with the buckles. I pull them off and drop them on the carpet. My dress slides off with ease and my skin prickles in the cool air. I lie back on the duvet wearing only my thong, the lace completely drenched. I slide them off and my hand drifts to my flat stomach. I trace my navel with my index finger, then move lower. I hesitate — not because I'm uncertain, but because I want to pretend, for just a moment, that my hand is his, teasing me. 

And it wouldn’t be the first time.

I close my eyes.

I picture him — the water beading on his chest, the tattoo in Portuguese running along the left side of his torso. I picture his hand where mine is now, his fingers sliding inside of me, my body clenching around them tightly. His voice in my ear saying I need you now.

My fingers slip through wetness — slick, swollen, aching. I press two fingers against my clit and my hips arch off the bed. The duvet bunches under my shoulders. I circle slowly, the way he circled, picturing his thumb against my most sensitive place. My breath comes in short pulls. My free hand grips the sheet beside me, twisting the fabric into a rope.

His hand. His fingers. I imagine the roughness of his palm, the strength in those knuckles, the way he'd press harder if I gasped. I press harder. My thighs fall open wider. My heels dig into the mattress.

"Mateus —" The name leaves my mouth before I can stop it. The sound of it in the empty room makes my face burn. I don't care. I say it again, quieter, a breath more than a word.

My fingers slide lower, pushing inside. Two. I curl them upward and my back bows. The heel of my hand grinds against my clit. I imagine him above me, his weight pressing me into this mattress, his mouth on my neck, his hips driving forward as his eyes burn into mine. I imagine the scar above his eyebrow, the way his jaw would clench, the sounds he'd make.

My rhythm quickens. The wet sounds fill the room — gorgeously so. It only turns me on more. My nipples harden in the cool air and I imagine his mouth there too, his tongue, his teeth. I imagine his hands on my hips, holding me while cum between them.

The orgasm builds like a rollercoaster climbing to it’s highest point. I clench around my own fingers, my muscles tightening, my breath stuttering. I push deeper. My thumb circles my clit in tight, hard strokes. The tension coils in my lower belly, winding tighter, tighter —

I break into what feels like a free fall and thrust my hips against my hand. A moan tears out of me, muffled against the pillow I've pulled over my face. My thighs clamp together. I ride the aftershocks in violent, jerking movements, my fingers still inside, my body clenching and releasing like the waves of an ocean.

When I finally go still, the room is silent except for my breathing. I pull my hand free and stare at the ceiling. The sticky note with the number twenty-one sits in my mind, unyielding.

Twenty days now. And all I want is him more.