She studies intently the address in her hand, beetle black scratches on the back of an envelope, wonders why she brought the address with her at all. She's been to that same hotel far too many times before, she could probably find her way there with her eyes shut.
Her destination is a hotel with delusions of grandeur, fake chandeliers and marble floors. She clacks across the lobby, she's wearing stilettos heels and a cinched at the waist black coat. Her long brown hair tied in a loose bun, with odd rebellious strands framing her face. She feels vaguely French, like she should be in black and white, noir.
The receptionist nods at her, the staff all know her here.
Room 22 again, it always is. The room number has no real significance, well it didn't used to anyway, but she supposes that it does now.
The door's ajar, she walks in, head held high and a hive of buzzing bees in her stomach, just like always. He's laying there, naked as the day he was born, lounging on the bed come hither eyes and tousled hair.
With a haughty look, she kicks the door to. And begins to undo the cinch on her coat. Falling into her strip tease with the ease of routine. Slowly, slowly she eases the ties apart, before shrugging the coat off her shoulders and onto the floor, where it curls into a dark pool.
Underneath the coat, is nothing but underwear. Black lace, pink frills, pink thrills and leather boots. She smiles seductively, and pulls her hair from it's bun. Shaking it like a cliché secretary in one of her romantic comedies.
She's beautiful, she knows she's beautiful, a perfect hour glass figure and creamy skin. She has imperfections of course, but she knows how to hide them, she's had plenty of practise.
He beckons her over, she saunters, shaking her hips, smile firmly in place, and a twinkle in her eye. She sits on the bed and leans forward. He whispers nonsense in her ear and kisses her neck. She purrs contentedly. He licks a blazing trail down her chest, before rising up and kissing her forcibly on the lips.
The underwear doesn't last long, it's gone, flung to the far corners of the room, her bra hooked on the TV aerial, rock and roll.
Soon there's a mass of sticky writhing limbs on the bed, and neither one makes a sound for a very long time.
Then when he's looming over her, thrusting into her, he speaks.
"I… Love you." Earnest, he looks far younger now, staring down at her, with something in his eyes. And she's at a loss for words. Silence prevails once more, before just as the inevitable conclusion is reached, as the mountain peak is reached. He says it again and
"Tell me you love me". This time the silence is stunned. Then he pulls her hair slightly too hard and says it again, screams it, over and over. So she does, she tells him she does and he's calm again. And then, that's it, it's over, the deed is done, and he collapses on top of her. In a pool of his own making.
When he falls asleep, he makes little snuffly sounds, and she can't quite bring herself to move just yet, so she sits there a while, self-consciously stroking his hair.
But she's on a tight schedule and she can't stay in their little cocoon forever and ever, not like she wants to anyway.
So she gets up, unhooks her bra from the aerial, puts on her frilly pants, her leather boots and does up her coat. Then she shuffles, tired, body and mind, over to the dresser and picks up his wallet.
She takes what she's owed and leaves.
And if she looks back, it doesn't have to mean anything at all.
Authors Note: The title is the name of a Liars song. This was orignally designed to stand alone, but as more has been requested, there may be a sequel, or even a novel to come.