Beata squeezed Josh’s hand tightly as they hurried along the tiled hallway. Her heels clicked in a quick staccato, a counterpoint to the duller pad of his boots. They were both sure that their heavy breaths and furtive glances were making them conspicuous as they rushed through the largely empty room. The hallway opened into a spacious lobby, where gentle music and laughing voices drifted from the open doors of the adjoining restaurant. Beata snuck glances into the restaurant, sure that there would be dozens of accusing eyes staring back, but the patrons and staff were all engaged in their own conversations or duties. Their attentive waiter from earlier in the evening was resetting the table where they had dined that evening. Beata felt a spotlight on them, but the audience didn’t care.
Josh pushed the heavy outer glass door open and cool evening air rushed over their skin. Goosebumps from chill and from nervousness intermingled. Beata slid her hand up and pulled closer, tucking her arm inside of his, feeling his warmth. She was flushed, a casual observer may think she had a touch too much sun that day, or that she was warm. Beata thought that her red skin, contrasted against the navy and white of her dress, was proudly announcing that she had just been well fucked. That thought made her even redder as they made their way out of the hotel and down the street.