We are in the boutique hotel lobby where we first met for drinks: same sitting area, same booth, which I’m beginning to think of as Ours. We watch the people at the other tables: the business meetings, all laptops and PowerPoint; the vacationers from Spain, writing postcards; the lesbian couple near the window, trying not to be noticed when they slip upstairs; the trysts, the breakups, the stood-ups. All of humanity, in other words, within a dozen or so feet of us.

The server approaches; we order: a bottle of Cava, the charcuterie plate, baked brie en croute, a pear salad. We take our time, enjoying the food and each other’s company, still watching the other tables and entertaining ourselves with their stories — whether invented or observed, it hardly matters. When the food and the Cava are gone, I pay the bill and take you by the hand.

“Where are we going?” you want to know, because I’ve started to guide you out of the lounge. To the staircase off the lobby, as it happens, our room on the second floor overlooking 8th Street — and it is anybody’s guess whether a street-side room is superior; we’re not likely to be doing a lot of gazing out the window.

On the table is another bottle of Cava, sweating in its bucket, and a platter with cheese and fresh fruit.

“For later,” I say, and you look around the room. One wall has a small built-in bookcase, with — surprisingly, for a hotel room, a few books as well as the usual tchotchkes: a basic volume of poetry, a few nonfiction books that no longer grace any publisher’s backlist; an Agatha Christie omnibus and another volume of poetry. Empty spaces on the shelves evidence the drama selections and, especially, the novels, that left with some previous occupant.. A handful of travel books for places both seen and not — aspirational choices, perhaps, for New York books would (like the fiction) doubtless travel far beyond the hotel.

I open the wine, and bring the tray — bucket, bottle, and glasses — and set them down on the shelf. We raise our glasses and toast each other, again. The bookcase is quite ordinary, except for the hole in the fourth shelf; I point it out to you. You put your glass on the shelf, bend to look at the hole. I slip off my necktie, grab your wrist and loop the tie around it. Push the end through the hole and pull tight, then grab your other wrist. Now you’re tied to the bookcase, your wrists in front of you. I smile, pick up your wine, give you a sip, then bend to kiss your mouth. You bite my lip, hard: you draw blood. We both taste it, it mingles with he wine. I kiss you again, bite your lips: enough to tame you, as much as you will be tamed in this moment.

I stand behind you and kiss your shoulder, then scrape my teeth along your back to taste your skin, the faint salt mingling with the flush of arousal. I kiss you again; you are better-behaved but no less passionate. We both sink into the moment and I begin to slowly undress you, slipping your blouse over your head and letting it heap around your bound wrists. My fingers slip under your bra strap, my lips trace the line of the elastic until that, too, falls forward. I stand behind you, close, my hands cupping your breasts, and I nuzzle your neck. You seem in almost a trance while I unfasten your jeans and slide them to the floor, my lips staying in almost constant contact with some part of you the entire time.

My hands move up one leg and down the other, then up again to follow the curve of your ass, caress your hips, and around to your breasts again. One hand caresses your throat, my lips at your ear whisper softly. I reach for the glass of Cava, give you a sip before taking one myself. You turn your head to kiss me, and at the same time I take ice from the bucket and begin to trace the same lines that my hand traveled a moment ago: nipples, breast, shoulder, neck, back, ass. The trail of cold water mingles with your salt and musk.

I consume every drop before repeating, and repeating.

I am intoxicated. We are intoxicated.

Later, the scent of you on my fingers, we sit in bed with our cheese plate and finish the Cava. In an hour or two we might venture out for a stroll down 8th Street. Or not.