Dirty Thirty 1

Alexxa flops onto the king bed, shoes still on, after a brutal day. She yanks off her jacket, flings it at the couch, then stares at the phone like it kicked her. Boyfriend's sorry, lots to do, maybe tomorrow. Typical. The door clicks shut behind the bell boy and she hears his cart roll off. She smiles, already knowing he won't reach the elevators. One hand between her legs, she calls the front desk, voice husky: "Room 912. I need someone to fix my TV... fast." He knocks two minutes later, breathing a little quick, and she answers in nothing but a towel that's half-dried. "You're cute when you're working," she grins, tugging him inside. Her mouth tastes mint when she kisses him, and the towel drops easy. She drops to her knees while the door's still half-open, takes his dick with a greedy, hot swallow and looks straight up. The room feels smaller with his belt clicking loose, the bedspread wrinkling under her heels as she climbs on backwards. She rides him sloppy, loud, sweat streaking her spine, one palm leaving streaks on the mirror so everyone watching the parking lot gets a show. He pulls out just to flip her on her stomach, slams in again. Her thighs shake when she comes, breaths coming in ragged curses, and he finishes on her lower back in thick, warm ropes. Thirty minutes exactly. He zips up, doesn't ask for a tip, just grins like they just got away with something filthy. Door closes. She's already scrolling again, relaxed.