The hotel was the Meridian, a five-star tower downtown where the bathrooms were bigger than my first apartment and the steam showers came with a rainfall head and a view of the city. I’d checked in with Richard — my husband, always working, always watching sports in the hotel room instead of touching me — for a “romantic weekend” that had turned into him ordering room service and falling asleep with the TV on.
I’d called the spa at 9 PM for a “complimentary amenity replenishment.” I’d expected towels. I’d expected bath salts. I hadn’t expected Sloane.
She was the spa attendant. Twenty-eight. She’d arrived at the door in a black fitted uniform with a cart, her blonde hair in a low bun, her eyes lingering on the wedding ring I hadn’t taken off. “Turndown service,” she’d said. And then she’d followed me into the bathroom.
The shower was running. The mirror was fogging. The bathroom was a cloud.
“My husband is watching TV in the bedroom,” I whispered, leaning against the marble counter in my white hotel robe. My hair was wet from the shower. The steam was turning everything into a dream. Sloane was behind me, her hand under my robe, on my waist. “The mirror is completely fogged. The shower is still running. The door is unlocked. And your hand is under my robe, not the towel. You’re supposed to be replenishing the amenities. Not sliding your palm over my stomach. Not pressing your thumb into my hip. Not—”
Sloane didn’t speak. She just leaned in, her cheek brushing my wet hair, her hand sliding higher under the robe, finding my breast with a precision that was completely devastating.
“If he walks in to brush his teeth,” I breathed, my voice trembling as her fingers found my nipple, “he’ll see the spa attendant with her hands inside his wife’s robe. He’ll see your uniform open and your mouth on my neck and the steam hiding everything except the sounds — the wet sounds, the breathing, the counter creaking — and he’ll know that the ‘complimentary turndown service’ included something not on the menu. He’ll know that while he watched the game, his wife was being serviced by the woman who brought the towels—”
She turned my face toward her with a hand on my jaw. Her mouth found mine. A kiss that tasted like steam and marble and the exact moment when a bath becomes a baptism in something holy and profane. Her tongue slid against mine, her hand sliding down my stomach, into my underwear, finding me wet and ready and completely checked in.
The bathroom door handle turned.
A knock. Richard’s voice. Muffled by the steam and the TV.
“Elena? You almost done? I need to brush my teeth.”
Sloane didn’t pull away. She just pressed her other hand over my mouth, her fingers still moving inside me, her eyes locked on mine in the fogged mirror.
“Just finishing up, Richard!” I called out, my voice miraculously steady. “The steam is really thick!”
“Okay! But hurry!”
His footsteps retreated. Sloane looked at me. The shower was still running. The mirror was completely white.
“The turndown service is complimentary,” she whispered against my mouth, her thumb circling my clit, her fingers pressing deeper, finding a rhythm that matched the running water. “But what I’m doing to you is personal. Not billed. Not recorded. Just mine.”
She made me come against the marble counter. Her fingers inside me, her mouth on my breast, the steam turning everything into a cloud, my body shaking so hard a towel fell from the rack.
After, she replenished the amenities. She folded the towels. She kissed my forehead.
“Enjoy your stay,” she said, perfectly professional.
I still stay at the Meridian. Richard still watches TV. And every time we check in, I call for turndown service. Sloane always comes. She always follows me into the bathroom. And the steam always hides exactly what she does to me.
The hotel has no record of her visits. But the marble counter remembers. And so do I.
