She closed her eyes.  She tried to slow her breathing again, close her ears to the noises in the hallway: of guests coming and going and of doors slamming, of arguments that started in the elevator, of squeaky room service trolleys.

She opened her eyes and saw his back.  He was at the desk — pouring something?  She wasn’t sure.  She knew better than to utter a word or even move her head to take in the rest of the room.  She stood, in silence and as patiently as she could, while anxiousness gave way to anticipation, and apprehension yielded to arousal.  She thought about his instructions: to be on time, to dress in a certain way; she thought about how she had deliberately been late, how there hadn’t (yet) been any penalty.  She thought about what would come next and realized she hadn’t a clue.  And she began, finally, to fall into the moment.  Everything else fell away, except the room and the man.

He turned to face her.  He smiled; she gulped and reminded herself, again, to breathe, to try to relax.   She closed her eyes again, breathed slowly, purposefully.  She was here.  Nothing else mattered.  Nothing else existed.

He was unbuttoning her top: after each button gave way his lips touched down on her back at the newly-revealed spot.  He was quite tender, but she could sense something else in him: he was controlled, not mentioning again — for now — her tardiness nor her other minor infractions.  She supposed them minor, for he hadn’t said anything.  But as he slowly disrobed her, exposed her, undid her, she realized that he wasn’t simply controlling her: he was holding himself back.  His spell over her was effortless: she knew that.  But she sensed an effort, in him, a purposeful slowing-down and almost forced calm.  It frightened her; it aroused her; it pushed her deeper into the moment.

She felt him brush the top off her shoulders, felt it flutter to the floor.  She wanted more of him,  all of him.  She wanted him to consume her; she wanted to consume him.  She caught herself before she could make a sound, before her knees failed her.  She knew he was noticing everything and that frightened her, aroused her, even more.

His hand touched her shoulder, lightly.  She breathed, willing herself not to flinch, not to jump.  He stroked her, up to her neck and down past her elbow.  His other hand did the same, on her other arm.  They were not coordinated, but rather syncopated — or almost syncopated.  It was more like a random stroke on each arm, neither connected with the other.  She breathed slowly.  His fingers caught one bra strap, and then the other.  The bra suddenly fell away: she didn’t feel him lift his hand to unfasten it, nor did she feel it loosen.  It was simply there, and then not.  It dropped off her arms and fell to the floor.

She kept her eyes closed; she kept breathing regularly.  She tried not to notice — not to react — when his fingers touched her nipples, roamed her bare skin, explored her more fully.   He whispered in her ear.  She kept breathing.  She was in the moment — and was trying to keep herself there, suspended, defying the strictures of time and the laws of physics.  

He whispered again, harsher this time.  She opened her eyes and saw him looking back at her while his hands, his fingers, continued their navigation as if on their own.