Marty wasn’t supposed to linger. He had a wife, a whole other life back in the suite upstairs — clean sheets, room service, someone waiting on him with a ring on her finger. But here, with you, the lines blurred.

The hotel bar was dim, ice clinking in crystal glasses, and Marty leaned too close when he talked. His robe half-open, still smelling faintly of his morning cologne, hair unruly like he hadn’t bothered taming it for anyone but himself. He still wore the gold band that was snug around his finger, catching the light every time he raised his glass.

“You shouldn’t even be here,” you whispered, though your hand was already brushing his when he slid the matchbook across the table.

He smirked. That crooked, self-assured grin that made you feel like you were the only secret worth keeping. “Neither should you.”

And maybe that was enough.

Later, when the hallways went quiet and the city pulsed below the window, he kissed you like it was the last thing tethering him to the world. Mouth hot, teeth dragging, the taste of gin and want heavy between you.

“You know I can’t stay,” he murmured against your jaw, voice rough with something between guilt and hunger. But his hands stayed on your waist anyway, thumbs pressing into your skin like he couldn’t let go.

“You shouldn’t be looking at me like that,” he continued, though he was the one tracing circles into your bare knee, the one leaning in until his grin was brushing your lips. “Makes me feel like I’m actually worth the trouble.”

The telephone on the nightstand rang — you both knew who it was. He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look away from you.

“Don’t go soft on me now,” he said, voice low, half-teasing. “You knew what this was when you let me follow you up here.”

He kissed you like the whole world had to be ignored to make space for it. Fast, greedy, like a man who couldn’t stand to be hungry in any sense of the word.

And maybe you hated him for it. Or maybe you’d let him stay, just one more night.