Page 37 of Absolution

Lately, I’ve been watching this guy on YouTube, some ex-Navy SEAL or mindset coach or whatever. Talks about routine, mental strength, discomfort. Cold showers. Said they train the mind to stay calm in chaos, teach your body discipline. So far, the guy’s been on the money.

I turn the dial all the way cold and step in.

It hits like needles at first. My breath catches. I grit my teeth. But I stay under. Let it bite. Let it burn.

By the time I step out, I’m wide awake. Focused. My skin is goose bumped and flushed, but my head’s clear. Towel around my waist, I scrub my hair dry, and head toward the minibar, when there’s a knock at the door.

Swinging open the door, I’m not shocked to see her standing there, holding the cart like we didn’t already know how this night would end the second she saw me come back to the hotel. Her smile says the same.

“Room service,” she says, rolling the tray in without waiting for a response. Her badge readsAva, same as every other time this week. Her voice is syrup-smooth, practiced.

I step aside, watching her push the cart in like she owns the place. She’s wearing the hotel uniform, but her top button is undone, I’m not sure it ever started out closed.

She parks the tray beside the couch, then straightens, turning to me with a smirk that’s halfway between professional and something else entirely.

“Bit late, isn’t it?” I say, not hiding the edge in my voice.

She shrugs lightly, fingering the lapel of her shirt. “We’ve been backed up all evening. I’m here now, though.” Her gaze drops for a second, deliberate. “Is there anything else I can get you, sir?”

Her tone leaves no doubt what she’s offering. Like this is routine. Like we’ve done this before.

Because we have.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, towel slung low on my hips. Regret doesn’t even register anymore. This is my life now, three beautiful kids, a marriage that’s run cold, and quiet moments like this where I let someone else's touch fill the space my wife used to occupy. She’s younger, too young and she shouldn’t be here. But as she steps closer, lips parted just enough, I don’t stop her.

“I missed you,” she murmurs, voice low and warm.

That’s a problem. I’m leaving tomorrow and won’t see her again. Probably for the best. I don’t want strings. And a divorce? Not worth the fight, not yet.

“Get on the bed,” I say, my tone even. Detached.

Her heels click softly against the hardwood as she walks. Turning towards the minibar, I pour myself a whiskey, and toss it back. It slides down with a sweet burn.

When I turn around, she’s waiting, sprawled across the centre of the bed, her eyes locked on me. Everything about her is an invitation.

She’s lying in the bed like she belongs there. Long legs stretched out, hair fanned across the pillows. The only thing on her is her heels, the rest is completely and shamelessly bare. Her body is sculpted, the kind that doesn't just come from youth but effort, clearly looked after, toned, and tempting.

I don’t move right away. Just stand there, one hand wrapped around the glass meant for her. The silence pulses between us. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t have to. Her eyes track over me like she knows exactly how this night ends. Her heels dig harder into the bed as she spreads her legs, and moves her hand down, between her breasts, over her stomach, landing on her perfectly pink pussy.

I let her have this moment of control, the illusion of it, anyway. Let her stretch herself across the bed, let her think she’s steering the night.

But we both know the truth.

From the first time she knocked on my door, I made it clear: I’m not here to be sweet, or gentle, or play pretend. I told her, flat out, if she wanted polite conversation and soft touches, she was at the wrong door. That’s not what I offer. That’s not who I am in here.

She said she didn’t want vanilla. Good.

She holds my gaze now, waiting. There’s no hesitation, no fear, just that quiet challenge, the kind that makes surrender taste better when it finally comes.

She thrusts two fingers inside her pussy, arching her back. Done with waiting, I finish the glass in my hands in one gulp and walk toward her. Dropping the towel, I pause to grab the box of condoms and lube from the cabinet. About a few months ago, I took a long trip and got a vasectomy. Last thing I need is a woman showing up with a kid in tow.

I crawl onto the bed from the bottom, stopping when my face is between her legs. Ripping her hands away from her pussy I flip her over until she on her knees, with her ass up.

Kneeling behind her, I wrap her hair around my fist, using it as leverage to raise her until her back is plastered to my front, “Is this what you came for?”

“Please.” She begs in a breathy voice.

Well, who am I to say no?

---