Remy
Swapped with Harrington. Ethan's idea. Something about needing quiet for footage review. Room 412 is yours and Alex's. Don't make it weird.
I stared at the text. Read it again.
My whole chest lit on fire.
I was going to spend the night with Alex. In a hotel room. A real hotel room—not a dorm, not a boathouse shower—no. An actual room with a door that locked and a bed that was worth sleeping in.
I stood up. Sat back down. Stood up again.
Get it together, Moore.
I looked around the room. The two queen beds with white sheets that were actually soft. The desk by the window. The lamp that dimmed. The bathroom with a door that closed and a shower that was bigger than my entire bathroom at home. The little coffee maker with the pods. The view—actual city lights, actual skyline, not a parking lot or a brick wall.
The first hotel room of my life. And I was spending it with him.
Then it hit me. Slow at first, then all at once—the kind of realization that starts in your stomach and spreads everywhere.
We could have sex. Here. Tonight. Not rushed, not standing up, not half-dressed with one ear listening for footsteps. In a bed. With time. With privacy. With a locked door and hours ahead of us and nobody who could walk in.
The heat that flooded through me was immediate and total. My face. My chest. My dick. I pressed my palms against the bedspread and breathed.
Calm down. He's not even here yet.
But my brain was already there—Alex on these sheets, Alex underneath me, Alex making the sounds he made when we were alone and didn't have to be quiet.
The door beeped. The handle turned.
Alex stepped in. Key card in his hand. Bag over his shoulder. He stopped when he saw me—sitting on the edge of the bed, face probably redder than it had any right to be, looking at him like he'd walked into a room I'd already undressed him in.
"Guess it's just us tonight," he said. Casual. But the corner of his mouth was pulling.
"Yeah. Remy texted me."
"I had a quick conversation with Ethan." He set his bag on the other bed. Unzipped it. Not looking at me. "He winked and said have fun."
The room went quiet. Just us. The hum of the air conditioning. The muffled sound of the city through the window. Somewhere down the hall, Tyler's voice—loud even through walls.
Alex stood by the desk. I sat on the bed. Ten feet between us. The same distance we maintained in every boathouse and locker room and dining hall—except tonight there was no reason for it. No audience. No performance. No one watching.
"Alex."
He turned.
"Get over here."
Something loosened in his face. The composure cracking into something realer. He crossed the room and stood in front of me. I grabbed him by the hips, we were nose to nose.
"This is my first time in a hotel," I said.
"What?"
"This is my first time in a hotel. Ever."
His expression shifted. Not pity—something softer. "Liam—"
"And I'm spending it with you." I reached for his hand. Pulled him closer. "In a room with a lock on the door and a pretty comfortable bed."
