The condensation on the bottle of San Miguel Pale Pilsen dripped onto my thumb, mirroring the rain that lashed against the floor to ceiling windows of the hotel suite.
Manila was crying tonight. Or maybe the city was just pissing on me, like everyone else had for the last month.
I sat on the edge of the king sized bed, the sheets pristine and mocking in their whiteness. The room smelled of lavender disinfectant and the bitter aroma of the three beers I'd already downed.
Outside, the Makati skyline was a blur of neon reds and hazy yellows, a glittering jewel box that I usually had the keys to. Tonight, though, I felt like I was locked on the outside, looking in at a life that used to make sense.
A rhythmic knocking on the door broke the silence.
I took another long swig of the beer, letting the carbonation burn the back of my throat, numbing the lump that had been lodged there since Tuesday. I set the bottle on the nightstand with a heavy clink.
"It's open," I said, my voice sounding rougher than I intended.
The door clicked. The heavy wood swung inward, revealing a silhouette framed by the hallway light. She stepped in, locking the door behind her with a click.
She was tall, skin the color of cafe au lait, with dark hair cascading down her back. She wore a red dress that clung to her like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination and everything to the appetite.
She walked toward me, her hips swaying with a professional rhythm. She looked at me, her eyes dark and unreadable.
I stood up. I was six two, towering over her.
I reached out and pulled her close. She smelled of cheap vanilla perfume and rain. It wasn't her smell. Her smell was strawberries and expensive shampoo. I pushed that thought away, burying it under a layer of lust and anger.
I kissed her.
[Warning: The following section contains explicit adult content intended for mature readers only.]
My hands roamed over the red fabric, finding the zipper at the back. I pulled it down in one smooth motion, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
The dress pooled at her feet, leaving her in black lace lingerie that contrasted starkly with her warm skin.
I picked her up, my hands gripping her thighs, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist. She was light, lighter than I expected, but she felt solid against me.
I carried her to the bed and laid her down, the mattress groaning softly under our weight.
I stripped off my shirt, buttons flying, not caring where they landed. My belt followed, the buckle jingling as it hit the floor.
I shucked off my trousers and boxers, letting the cool air hit my skin for a fleeting second before I hovered over her.
She looked up at me, her expression neutral but her body was ready. She spread her legs, inviting me in.
I moved between her thighs, the sight of her exposed center doing little to spark genuine desire, but doing enough to trigger the biological imperative.
I positioned myself at her entrance. The head of my cock brushed against her wetness. I pushed in, slowly at first, stretching her. She gasped, her nails digging slightly into my shoulders.
It was a tight fit.
I sank into her completely, burying myself to the hilt. The sensation was warm and wet.
I began to move.
I withdrew almost all the way out, then slammed back in. My hips slapped against her buttocks with a wet sound.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
She moaned, the sound generic but loud enough to fill the void in the room. I watched my own body working, disjointed from my mind. I watched the way my muscles tensed in my arms as I held myself up, the way my sweat began to drip onto her breast.
I grabbed her legs, lifting them high, hooking her ankles over my shoulders. This angle opened her up completely, allowing me to drive deeper. I pounded into her, each thrust a release of pent up aggression.
"Fuck," I gritted out, the word tearing from my throat.
I felt the walls of her sheath clamping down around me, milking me.
I moved one hand down between our bodies, finding her clitoris, rubbing it harshly as I continued to piston in and out of her. She bucked her hips, the pleasure spiking, her moans turning into sharp cries.
I pulled out, leaving her gaping and glistening.
"Turn over," I ordered.
She complied instantly, rolling onto her stomach and rising to her knees. The curve of her spine, the roundness of her ass… it was perfect. objectively perfect. And it meant absolutely nothing to me.
I positioned myself behind her. I grabbed her hips, my fingers digging into the soft flesh, leaving white marks that would fade to red. I guided myself back in, the angle different now, hitting deeper.
I leaned forward, my chest pressing against her back, my sweat mingling with hers. I reached around and cupped her breasts, squeezing them hard, my thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples.
One, two, three, four.
Hard, fast, relentless.
I could feel the impact reverberating through her body. Her head was buried in the pillows, her muffled cries the only soundtrack to my misery.
I had stamina. I always had. I could go for hours. It was something I used to be proud of. Something she used to compliment.
"You're amazing, Aryan. You wear me out."
Lies. All of it, fucking lies.
I gritted my teeth, anger surging through my veins like molten lead. I drove into the woman beneath me with everything I had, trying to fuck the memory of Micah out of my brain. I wanted to exhaust myself so thoroughly that I wouldn't be able to think.
I shifted my grip to her hair, pulling her head back slightly, exposing the line of her throat. I watched the pulse fluttering there.
Minutes stretched. Ten. Twenty.
The physical exertion was immense, my breath coming in ragged gasps, but I refused to stop. The friction was building, a fire starting at the base of my spine.
I let go of her hair and slapped her ass, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Her skin flushed pink.
"Harder?" she whispered, the first word she'd spoken since entering.
"Shut up," I snarled.
I increased the speed, my hips a blur of motion. The slapping sound became a continuous rhythm, a chaotic drumbeat. I could feel the pressure building in my groin, the inevitable crest approaching.
I focused on the physical sensation… the heat, the tightness and the way she clenched around me. I chased that edge, pushing myself toward the precipice.
"I'm close," I muttered, more to myself than her.
I grabbed her waist with both hands, anchoring her in place and hammered into her with final strokes.
Deep. Shallow.
Deep. Deep. Deep.
My body tensed, every muscle locking up. With a guttural roar that sounded more like pain than pleasure, I let go. I poured myself into the condom, the release violent and shuddering. I kept thrusting through the orgasm, milking every last drop of sensation, refusing to let the moment end, refusing to return to reality.
Finally, my legs gave out. I collapsed onto her back, my chest heaving, sweat dripping from my nose onto the sheets.
I lay there for a moment, listening to the rain battering the window, the silence of the room returning with a vengeance.
I pulled out and rolled off the woman, landing on my back on the mattress. I stared up at the ceiling, feeling disgust coil in my gut. Not at the woman, she was just doing a job… but at myself.
I sat up, the room spinning slightly. I grabbed a towel from the side table and cleaned myself up efficiently, discarding the condom in the trash. The woman was already sitting up, gathering her clothes.
I walked over to the desk where my wallet lay next to the empty beer bottles. I pulled out a thick stack of pesos. It was more than the agreed rate.
"There is money on the table," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "You can take it and get out."
She walked over, scooped up the cash with practiced elegance and slipped it into her purse. She finished dressing quickly, smoothing down the red dress that had looked so promising an hour ago and now looked like a costume.
She walked to the door.
"Goodbye," she said softly.
I didn't answer.
She opened the door, slipped out and closed it.
Click.
The sound of the lock engaging felt like a prison cell slamming shut.
I walked back to the minibar and grabbed another San Miguel. I cracked the cap and downed half of it in one go, the cold liquid shocking my system.
I collapsed into the armchair by the window, staring out at the weeping city of Manila.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass… a ghost superimposed over the city lights. Aryan Spencer. Twenty five years old. Handsome, they said. Rich, definitely. Powerful build, clear skin, the kind of guy who walked into a room and owned it.
What a fucking joke.
My mind began to drift, unmoored by the alcohol and the exhaustion. It floated back, against my will, to the beginning.
It wasn't always like this. I wasn't always this hollow shell.
I remembered being five years old. I remembered the flight from the States to the Philippines. I remembered my father, telling me, "This is the land of opportunity, Aryan! We're going to build an empire."
And he did. Spencer Diamonds. We dealt in stones that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime. We settled in Forbes Park, the wealthiest gated community in Manila. I grew up with maids, drivers, private tutors and bodyguards.
My childhood was a blur of privilege. International schools, vacations in Europe, new cars on my birthdays. I was the golden boy. I had the perfect life.
Then came college.
De La Salle University.
I chose a business course. It was expected. I was going to take over the company one day. I walked the halls with the confidence of someone who knew his future was secured in a vault.
And then I met her.
Micah.