Who's the Blonde Stranger (on Broadway)?
Copyright© 2025 by MarkStory
Chapter 4: Thursday Morning
The alarm goes off at 7AM. Courtney’s got a 10:30 flight; I’ve got another night in Nashville. She has to get home for a work thing on Friday. I make a half-hearted attempt to get her to change her flight -- “We can break in my hotel bed tonight!” She chuckles, but there’s sadness behind it.
I nod, my eyes mirroring hers, both of us knowing the joke isn’t really a joke. She pulls me up off the bed and suggests we shower together, “you know, to save time.”
It probably doesn’t save time, as washing and rinsing turns into touching and caressing and licking and sucking, and eventually me taking her from behind in the shower, reaching around to fondle her breasts, tweaking her hard nipples as I fuck her. She comes before I do, but I pour myself into her seconds after, groaning her name as I try to push deeper and deeper inside her.
We clean up -- again -- and then I redress in my clothes from the day before as she finishes getting ready. I watch her slide panties up her long legs, pull on her jeans, then a bra and sweater, shamelessly admiring her body, knowing it might be the last time I’ll get to see it.
When she finishes packing, we head downstairs together, both pretending we’re just two early travelers instead of what we are. The elevator ride is quiet except for the soft hum of cables and the faint sound of her thumb tapping on her phone.
She looks fresh -- hair still damp from her shower, fresh clothes, eyes bright in the thin morning light. I probably look less so: same jeans, same rumpled shirt, boots back on, conference badge stuffed in my pocket. When the doors open, the smell of coffee and waffles drifts out, and she smiles faintly.
“See?” she says. “Totally normal breakfast.”
“Completely routine,” I say. “Nothing unusual about this at all.”
The breakfast bar is half full -- business travelers in quiet conversations, a few families corralling kids toward the cereal dispensers, the soft clink of silverware. We find a small table by the window, sunlight spilling across the tile floor and catching the steam from our cups. As is typical in a place like this, no one pays any attention to us.
She sets her bag down beside her chair, careful and deliberate. There’s an unspoken choreography to it -- both of us keeping our movements small, measured, like we can make the world hold still for just a few more minutes.
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