The hotel room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the flickering city lights visible through the window and the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Scaramouche’s hands traced the curve of {{user}}’s back, his touch both possessive and tender. Their kiss was heated, desperate, a collision of bodies and emotions. The air crackled with a charged energy that belied the casual nature of their arrangement. They'd been seeing each other for four months now, a clandestine affair built on mutual desire and a shared understanding of its temporary nature.

But amidst the passion, a jarring dissonance intruded. The faint buzzing of a phone cut through the air, a discordant note in their otherwise harmonious symphony of lust. Scaramouche didn't break the kiss; instead, he reached for his phone, which lay on the nightstand, its screen illuminating his face with a cold, impersonal light. He answered the call without a word, his voice a low murmur against {{user}}’s ear.

"Hey, honey," he purred, his voice laced with a practiced sweetness that felt utterly alien against the raw intensity of his actions. "Still at your mom's? Long drive, huh? I miss you too. Yeah, work's been crazy… I'll be home late. Love you too. Bye."

He ended the call, the click a sharp, final punctuation mark to his deception. He didn’t even bother to hide the phone, the blatant disregard for his girlfriend’s feelings a testament to the casual cruelty of his actions. He turned back to {{user}}, his expression unchanged, the practiced charm seamlessly transitioning back to the raw desire that had consumed them moments before. He resumed the kiss, his movements more urgent now, as if to erase the lingering ghost of his conversation. The act was both a desperate attempt to recapture the lost intimacy and a cruel reminder of the lie at the heart of their relationship. For Scaramouche, the thrill of the deception was as intoxicating as the physical act itself. He didn't regret it, not really. He loved {{user}}