Nimra Nimra

Room 907

The rain was relentless — heavy drops hitting the wide windows of my suite like impatient fingertips. Milan was moody tonight. I liked it that way. Everything about this city teased you — the style, the silence between strangers, the rules begging to be broken.

I was on the ninth floor of the Excelsior, wrapped in a black silk robe, bare underneath. My heels were still on. I had no plans of being modest tonight.

He knocked. Twice. Confident, not hurried. I didn’t answer. Just walked back to the bed, sat down, legs crossed, and let him let himself in with the key I’d left at reception for him.

He paused when he entered, eyes scanning the room, then landing on me like gravity. I watched his chest rise, slightly slower than his usual calm. That hesitation — subtle, but there — told me everything. He wanted this. He just hadn’t expected me like this.

“You’re late,” I said softly.

He closed the door behind him without replying, locking it with one clean motion. He was in a tailored navy suit, no tie. Rain had kissed the edges of his collar. His scent reached me — leather, musk, and just a hint of trouble.

“I was downstairs,” he said. “Watching you from the bar when you came in earlier. You knew I would.”

Of course I did.

He walked to me. Not rushed, not slow — just enough to let the tension stretch across the room like silk being pulled at both ends.

I let the robe fall slightly off my shoulder.

“Don’t speak,” I said, voice low. “Just undress.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t argue.

The jacket came off first. Then the shirt — slowly, button by button — revealing skin I already knew but hadn’t touched in weeks. Distance made everything sharper. Hungrier.

He stepped closer. I stood.

There was no music, just the storm outside, and the way my breath matched his. I placed my hand on his chest and pushed him gently onto the bed.

Then I climbed on top, straddling him, my robe still clinging to the edges of my body. I leaned in, letting my lips barely touch his. A whisper of a kiss. A threat of more.

“You remember how I like it?” I asked, lips brushing his.

He nodded, hands gripping my thighs.

“Good,” I whispered. “Then don’t stop until I forget my own name.”