Crossing The Line Pt. 02

Crossing The Line (Part II)

The First Night -- St. Regis Hotel, SF

The elevator ride up to his suite felt heavy.

Maybe it was exhaustion from my double shift, or maybe it was the weight of what I was getting myself into.

I could've turned around. I could've left, gone home, and pretended this night never happened.

But I didn't.

Because I couldn't ignore what my body had been screaming for months.

Temptation wasn't temptation anymore. It was inevitable.

My heart pounded as I walked down the hall, counting the room numbers until I reached his door. Each step forward was another opportunity to turn back--another chance I deliberately ignored.

Ryan greeted me with that signature schoolboy smirk--the kind that carried quiet confidence, like he already knew what was going to happen. Like he'd been waiting for this moment since he first asked for my number five months ago.

I stepped inside, and immediately felt enveloped by luxury. The St. Regis suite was elegant yet understated--floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of the San Francisco skyline, city lights twinkling against the evening fog. A king-sized bed sat against one wall, pristine white duvet catching the soft glow from the bedside lamps.

"Long day?" he asked, his voice smooth, low. He moved to the minibar with practiced ease, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a tumbler.

"Brutal," I sighed, slipping off my flat heels. The ache in my feet was nothing compared to the tension gripping my shoulders. I ran a hand through my hair, and exhaled, hesitantly before adding.. "and I won't lie, I am a little nervous."

His eyes lingered on mine, reading between the lines.

Nervous, because I knew exactly what I was doing here. Nervous, because I was about to cross a line that I couldn't take back.

Ryan stepped closer, his fingertips grazing my wrist--a touch so subtle yet deliberate, it sent a quiet jolt through me.

"Then let me help you unwind."

"How?" I asked, even though I already knew.

"A massage." His cheeky smirk deepened. "You're tense--I can feel it from here. Let me sort you out!"

I hesitated. A beat, maybe two.

Then, fuck it.

I had walked into this room fully dressed--tight black leggings that hugged my curves, a fitted ribbed tank top that clung to my body just right, and a cropped leather jacket that still held the faint scent of my perfume.

But Ryan had other plans.

"Come here," he murmured, reaching for my jacket.

He slipped it from my shoulders with slow, intentional movements, letting his fingertips trail down my arms as he did. His touch was light, teasing, making my breath hitch. The jacket dropped to the floor, and then his hands were at the hem of my tank top, tugging it up just enough to expose a sliver of skin.

"Lift your arms," he instructed, his voice steady, controlled.

I obeyed without thinking, allowing him to pull my top over my head, leaving me in just my black lace bra--sheer enough to see my nipples pressing through the delicate fabric.

The air-conditioned room kissed my exposed skin, but the heat of his body standing so close to mine replaced any chill.

His hands moved lower, to the waistband of my leggings. My stomach tightened as he flicked it open, his fingers grazing my waistline before slowly dragging the fabric down.

He wasn't rushing--he was taking his time, like he was unwrapping something he'd been waiting to get his hands on.

And then, for a split second, everything paused.

In that instant, my mind drifted, caught between the urge to surrender to temptation and the need to contain the storm of emotions it stirred. The inner turmoil was impossible to ignore.

I really shouldn't be here.

I shouldn't want this so bad.

But I did, I needed this so bad.

I wanted the way Ryan looked at me--only me. The way his hands moved like he had all night to explore, the way he made me feel like I was the only thing in the world worth focusing on. The only thing that mattered.

When was the last time I felt that? When was the last time I wasn't competing with his families needs, a packed work schedule, five hundred miles of distance?

A deep breath. A choice.

My phone buzzed in my discarded jacket--once, twice. Probably my boyfriend, checking in like he always did around this time. Five hundred miles away, he was probably settling in with his daughter, completely unaware of what I was about to do. The thought should have stopped me cold.

It didn't.

"Still nervous?" Ryan asked, his breath warm against my cheek. I caught the faint scent of mint and expensive liquor. His eyes weren't just looking at me--they were cataloging, analyzing, finding every vulnerability.

I swallowed hard, shaking my head. Not anymore.

A smile ghosted across his lips--not warm like my boyfriend's, but calculating. Victorious. Like he'd just conquered something he'd been planning to take all along.

He knelt in front of me, fingers brushing against my hip bones before gripping the waistband of my leggings. The fabric slid down with agonizing slowness, his palms gliding over my thighs. The cool air raised goosebumps across my newly exposed skin, but the heat radiating from his body quickly chased the chill away.

I was left in nothing but my black lace bra and panties. Ryan's eyes traveled up my body with deliberate patience--from ankles to calves, lingering on the curve of my thighs, the lace between my legs, the dip of my waist--dark with something raw and undeniable. Not love. Not affection. Pure, unapologetic want.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful," he breathed, his voice lower than before. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this."

The confession hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. He hadn't just messaged me on a whim. He'd been planning this, waiting for his moment.

"On the bed," he murmured.

I climbed onto the mattress, lying face-down, my body sinking into the plush comforter. The vulnerability of the moment hit me all at once. I was here, half-naked, in a luxury suite with a man who wasn't my boyfriend--a man who was friends with my boyfriend--but who, at this moment, was solely focused on me.

No distractions. No divided attention. Just me, laid out before him, about to receive undivided attention from a man who clearly wanted to fuck me.

I exhaled softly, sinking into the moment. There was no second-guessing anymore--just the intoxicating feeling of his eyes on me, of being wanted so intensely I could feel it in the air between us.

I heard the quiet sound of a bottle opening, then the warm slide of oil being rubbed between his palms. The scent filled the air--something warm, slightly musky, intoxicating in its own way.

Then I felt it--the warmth of his hands gliding over my shoulders, the first touch of his fingertips pressing into my skin.

"Jesus, you're tight," he murmured, his thumbs kneading into the tension at the base of my neck.

I exhaled a shaky breath, my body already melting beneath his touch. He worked his way down my spine, slow and deliberate, each stroke of his fingers dissolving months of tension.

His fingers traced along the curve of my back, then lower, skimming just beneath the waistband of my thong. A quiet shiver ran through me as he teased the edge of the lace, his hands lingering, testing, waiting for any sign of hesitation.

"Relax, babe.. Relax," he murmured, leaning in, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.

His hands roamed lower, his thumbs pressing into the small of my back, gliding just beneath the lace waistband of my thong.

A slow exhale left me, my body reacting before my mind could catch up.

I wasn't even trying to hold back anymore.

The heat from his palms seeped into my skin, spreading through me in slow, rolling waves. Every stroke of his hands was measured, controlled, deliberate--like he was taking his time, learning every inch of me.

He smoothed his fingers down my sides, not quite touching my breasts, not quite touching my ass--but staying just close enough that my body anticipated it.

I shifted beneath him, arching ever so slightly.

And I felt him pause.

He noticed.

A quiet sound left his throat--low, almost amused.

"Babe."

His voice sounded different now--less casual, more weighted.

His hands settled at my hips, fingers flexing like he was holding himself back.

"Do you want me to take my shirt off?"

The question was smooth, unhurried, completely in control.

But it wasn't really a question.

I knew exactly what he was doing.

He was giving me a choice.

Letting me decide if I wanted this to go further. If I wanted to see him.

I swallowed, my breath uneven.

And then--without a word--I reached back.

Not for him.

For the hem of his shirt.

I felt the fabric between my fingers, my pulse thick and slow in my ears.

And then, I tugged.

Ryan inhaled sharply. Light from the city painted shadows across the planes of his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.

For the first time, I felt him hesitate.

Not because he wasn't sure--but because he was letting me confirm what he already knew.

Because he wanted me to cross this line deliberately.

Because he wanted me to choose this.

Because he wanted to watch me burn my alibi to the ground.

That I wanted this.

That I was done pretending.

That I would deal with the guilt tomorrow.

He let me pull his shirt up, and then he took over, stripping it off in one smooth motion.

And when he leaned down again, bare chest against my bare back, skin against skin--I gasped.

Because now?

Now I could feel everything.

The heat of his body.

The hard press of muscle.

And lower...

The unmistakable weight of him against me.

Oh.

Oh.

My breath stilled.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

But when his hands started roaming again--when he smoothed them down my stomach, brushing the lace at my hips--I knew exactly what I was getting myself into.

And I didn't care.

The warmth of his hands lingered on my skin, sliding over the smooth stretch of my back. His fingers moved lower, slower, pressing into the hollows of my waist before gliding down the curve of my hips.

Something had changed.

His touch wasn't just soothing anymore--it was searching.

Curious. Intentional.

The rhythm of his hands had slowed, but his presence had sharpened. I felt it in the way his thumbs circled, in the pause between each stroke. Like he wasn't just touching my body--he was learning it.

I exhaled softly, melting further into the mattress. The way his fingers teased along the lace waistband of my thong sent a slow pulse of heat through me--a careful test, a question unspoken.

He was taking his time. Savoring.

And then, his voice, low, careful, intimate.

"Mind if I remove this?"

The words settled in the space between us, heavier than they should've been.

I swallowed, my breath slow and uneven.

"Please," I whispered, the word escaping before I could stop it.

Pushing up slightly, I reached behind me, unclasping my bra. The sheer black lace slipped from my shoulders, falling away, leaving nothing but bare skin beneath his hands.

I settled back down, fully aware of how exposed I was now.

And so was he.

The pause stretched just long enough for me to feel his stare.

His fingers brushed the delicate slope of my back, lightly tracing over the place where the lace had just been. His palms smoothed over my shoulder blades, then lower, following the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, the slow rise of my hips.

I sighed, my lashes fluttering shut.

Then, his hands moved again.

Lower this time.

Teasing over the lace trim of my thong.

I felt his thumbs press into my hips, his fingers barely grazing the fabric that clung to me.

A pause. A test.

A soft, involuntary shiver rolled through me, and I knew he felt it.

I wasn't tense anymore.

I wasn't pretending anymore.

Ryan exhaled against my shoulder, his lips so close I could almost feel them.

"Turn over."

His voice had changed now--rougher, deeper.

I obeyed.

And when I did, his eyes locked onto mine.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then, his gaze dropped lower.

Tracing over me.

Taking in my naked breasts, the hard peaks of my dark nipples, the curve of my waist, the thin black lace that was the only barrier left between us.

His jaw tightened. His fingers flexed against my hips.

And when his hands moved again--trailing down my stomach, teasing along the lace at my hips--I knew exactly what was coming next.

And then--I felt it.

The slow, deliberate drag of his bulge against my thigh as he leaned over me.

Oh.

Oh.

Maia's voice flickered in my head like a warning, a reminder, a temptation.

"You know what they say about him, right?" she had teased. "Apparently, he has a HUGE Cock!"

I had laughed it off. Pretended I wasn't interested.

But now?

Now, as Ryan adjusted again, his thick, unmistakable length pressing against me, I wasn't wondering anymore.

Now, I knew.

And I wanted to see it for myself.