Room Service
Submitted by Camille...
It was supposed to be dessert.
I’d ordered the chocolate mousse. Extra whipped cream.
I didn’t expect him.
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He was tall, maybe late twenties, with messy dark hair and a five o’clock shadow that made my thighs clench.
His name tag said Ethan.
The tray shook slightly in his hand when I opened the door in nothing but a silk robe.
“Room service?” he said, voice thick.
I stepped aside, letting the scent of vanilla lotion and warm skin wrap around both of us.
“You can just… set it there,” I said, gesturing to the table.
But he hesitated.
Our eyes locked.
Then his gaze dropped—slowly—to where my robe had parted just enough to show a hint of bare thigh. And then he smiled.
A slow, dangerous kind of smile.
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“You celebrating something?” he asked, placing the dessert down.
“Maybe.”
“Alone?”
“Definitely.”
He stepped closer. “Seems like a waste.”
I tilted my head. “Are you offering to share?”
He looked at me like I was the one on the tray.
“I’m off in ten.”
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Ten minutes later, he knocked again. No uniform. Just jeans, a T-shirt, and eyes that said he already knew how this would end.
I let him in without a word.
He dipped a finger into the mousse, tasted it, then held it out to me.
I sucked it clean.
“Better than I thought,” I said.
“Not yet,” he replied—and suddenly I was on the table, mousse forgotten, robe loose, legs wrapped around his waist.
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He kissed me like he was starving. Like I was the last item on the menu.
His hands were firm, lips soft, movements confident—like he’d undressed women with dessert on their breath before.
When he slid inside me, it wasn’t slow—it was perfect.
Like he’d been waiting all night to claim a tip no one else could earn.
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We barely made it to the bed.
At one point he fed me bites of mousse between moans.
“You’re sweeter,” he murmured, licking whipped cream off my collarbone.
⸻
In the morning, he was gone—but the room service bill had a note scribbled in sharp handwriting:
“If you ever get hungry again… dial 407.”