Chapter 3: Room Service Included

The next morning, the whole place was quiet.

Too quiet.

Game day had passed, leaving nothing but empty cans, rumpled sheets, and the faint scent of booze and sweat hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Most of the guests had already checked out—hungover, hoarse, and dragging their feet back to whatever lives they’d paused for the weekend.

But not them.

Oh no...

They were still here.

I could hear their soft snoring through the thin walls as I pushed my cart down the hall, my heart thudding right along with the wheels.

Room 69.

I paused outside their door, staring at that faded number like it was daring me.

I knew exactly what I was doing.

I’d made up my mind long before I put on my uniform that morning.

I knocked once—soft enough not to wake them yet—and let myself in.

The scene inside was something else entirely.

There he was again.

The cocky boy from the day before passed out in a tangled heap of sheets, his chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths. Beer bottles littered every surface, towels hung off lamps, and the air was thick with heat and leftover cologne.

My eyes wandered—tracing the lines of his resting body, the way the sheets clung low on his hips. And there it was, right in front of me—what had kept me up all night.

That handsome young man lay in the middle of it all, his head resting on his bicep, the same cocky grin lingering on his lips even in sleep. His body was gorgeous, carved from hard work and youth, and beneath the sheets ... well, I could still see just enough to make my mouth dry.

Soft now, sure—but nothing about it looked small.

And something deep inside me knew just how easily I could change that.

My hands moved before my brain could stop them.

Quiet. Careful. Deliberate.

I peeled off my gloves and reached down, released a few buttons from my blouse as the temperature rose, fingertips ghosting over the curve of his thigh, higher and higher, until I felt the weight of him against my palm—heavy and warm, even at rest. My breath caught, but I didn’t stop.

He didn’t stir.

I could feel my pulse racing, my body already flushed beneath my uniform, heat gathering in places I hadn’t let myself acknowledge for years. My chest heaved, straining the remaining buttons of my blouse as I kept moving, my touch slow and steady, teasing him to life right there in my grasp.

And oh, did he respond.

It wasn’t long before I felt him stiffen, growing thick and hard in my hand as I worked him gently, watching his face for any sign of waking. He shifted, letting out a soft groan, but didn’t open his eyes.