The elevator doors slid open and Uday stepped out, his corporate smile fixed in place. His eyes swept over them — paused on Teena's new casual clothes, the damp spots still visible on her shirt, the flush in her cheeks. The pause lasted a heartbeat too long.
"Teena! Raj! Vikram!" His voice boomed across the lobby, too loud for the space. He crossed to them with quick, deliberate steps, hand extended. "Welcome to Amsterdam!"
Teena forced a smile. Uday's hand engulfed hers, his grip firm and lingering. His thumb pressed against her knuckles, a fraction of a second too intimate. She pulled free before he could complete the shake.
"You didn't pick up," Uday said, his eyes still on her. The smile didn't reach them. "I called. Three times."
"Signal," Teena said. Her voice came out steady. "Roaming issues. Didn't get anything."
Raj shifted beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. A millimeter of contact. Enough.
"All good now." Vikram stepped into the gap, his grin wide, his hand already out. "We made it. The prank worked. She was dying in that blazer."
Uday laughed — a rehearsed sound. He shook Vikram's hand, then Raj's, his grip quick and professional. "I heard. Classic Vikram." His eyes slid back to Teena. "You look comfortable now. Good. The blazer was too formal."
Teena's jaw tightened. The comment landed wrong — not a compliment, not quite a dig. Something in between that left her skin crawling.
"I have a room on the fourth floor," Uday said. "You can leave your bags there while you explore. I'll take them up."
"We can manage," Raj said.
Uday's smile didn't waver. "Nonsense. It's on the way." He picked up the largest bag — Teena's — before anyone could argue. "The restaurant is just past the reception. Dutch place. Good beer. I'll show you on the way."
He started walking. The three of them followed. Teena watched the back of Uday's head, the precise part in his hair, the way he held himself like a man who owned every room he entered.
The restaurant was empty. Wooden tables, brass fixtures, the smell of old beer and floor wax. Uday pointed at a corner table. "Sit there. I'll be down after some calls. Work never stops."
He handed Teena's bag to the receptionist with a brief instruction, then disappeared into the elevator. The doors closed. The lobby went quiet.
Vikram let out a low whistle. "He's changed."
Raj didn't answer. He was watching the elevator, his hands in his pockets, his body rigid.
"Changed how?" Teena asked.
Vikram shrugged, his voice dropping. "I don't know. Softer. Or trying to be." He glanced at the elevator doors. "Or waiting for something."
Teena twisted her wedding ring. The metal was warm against her finger. She thought of Uday's thumb on her knuckles, the way his eyes had held hers a beat too long.
"Let's get a table," Raj said. His voice was flat. He didn't look at either of them. He just walked toward the corner Uday had pointed at, his footsteps steady on the old wood floor.
The elevator doors slid shut behind Uday, and the lobby's quiet settled around him like a second skin. He stood motionless, watching the polished brass numbers above the doors count upward—2, 3, 4—before the car stopped. His floor. He didn't move.
He waited. Counted to thirty. Then pressed the button again.
The doors opened. He stepped inside, hit Lobby, and rode back down.
The receptionist was at the counter when he emerged, his posture stiff, his eyes scanning the empty restaurant corner where the three of them had been. They were still there—Raj's rigid back visible through the glass, Vikram's laugh carrying faintly. Uday's jaw tightened. He turned away before they could see him.
"The bags," he said, his voice flat. The receptionist nodded and disappeared into the back room.
Uday stood alone in the lobby, hands in his pockets, watching the receptionist return with three suitcases. His eyes landed on Teena's—a modest black roller, nothing flashy. He remembered her hand in his, the way she'd pulled free too fast. The way she hadn't met his eyes. The way she'd lied about the signal.
The receptionist set the bags near the elevator. Uday nodded, picked up Teena's suitcase, and carried it to the corner of the lobby where a small seating area sat empty. He placed it on the worn leather couch, his fingers lingering on the zipper.
Locked.
He checked the others—Raj's, Vikram's. Both unlocked. He opened them casually, a cursory glance, then closed them. Nothing interesting. But Teena's bag had a small padlock on the zipper pull, a cheap combination lock. He ran his thumb over it, testing.
His eyes drifted to the hamper near the reception desk. The blazer. She'd left it there, along with her formal clothes. He crossed to it, lifted the lid. The charcoal blazer lay folded on top, the white shirt beneath it, still damp at the collar. He picked up the blazer, felt the weight of it. Something shifted in the pocket.
He reached in. His fingers brushed metal—a small luggage key, the kind that came with cheap suitcases. He pulled it out, turned it over in his palm. The key was warm from being pressed against her body.
He looked at the suitcase on the couch. Then back at the key. The restaurant was still quiet. Raj, Vikram, and Teena were visible through the glass, their heads bent together over a table. No one was watching.
He walked back to the couch, sat down, and slid the key into the padlock. It clicked open.
His breath caught. He didn't know why. He'd seen a woman's luggage before. But this was hers. Teena's. The woman who'd pulled her hand from his, who'd lied about the signal, who'd sat next to Raj on the bench in Vondelpark without telling him.
He unzipped the bag. The fabric parted, revealing neatly folded clothes—jeans, a top, a small pouch. He reached in, his fingers brushing the soft cotton of her camisole. He lifted it out. White. Simple. The kind of thing a modest woman would wear. He pressed his thumb to the fabric, feeling the weave, the weight of it. Then he set it aside and dug deeper.
His hand found the lingerie pouch. He pulled it out—a small, dark blue drawstring bag. He loosened the cord and tipped the contents into his palm.
Three bras. White, nude, and black. The black one was lace, delicate, almost sheer. Uday's lips pressed together. He ran his thumb over the lace, feeling the pattern, the softness. He imagined her wearing it, the way the fabric would cup her breasts, the dark shape of her nipples beneath the thin material.
He put it back. Pulled out the panties. White cotton, nude cotton, and a black lace pair that matched the bra. He held the black lace between his fingers, the fabric so thin he could see his skin through it. He imagined her wearing these. For whom? For Raj? For her husband back home? For no one but herself?
He closed his eyes. The image burned behind his lids—Teena in black lace, her hair loose, her skin flushed, her lips parted. He saw her in his bed, in his room, her legs wrapped around him, her voice cracked and desperate, saying his name the way she'd never said it in the office. He wanted to hear her say it. Just once. Just to know he could make her.
He opened his eyes. The lobby was still empty. He folded the panties carefully, placed them in his pocket. He zipped the bag shut, locked the padlock, and slipped the key back into the blazer pocket.
He stood. Adjusted his collar. Walked toward the elevator with the blazer in his hand, his footsteps steady on the tile floor.
The doors opened. He stepped inside. As they closed, he pressed the fourth-floor button and let himself think about the black lace, the way it would feel in his hands, the way she would look wearing it for him.
The elevator doors opened onto the fourth floor. Uday stepped out, the blazer still in his hand, the memory of black lace burning behind his eyes. His room was at the end of the hall—a standard corporate suite with a queen bed, a desk, and a window overlooking the canal. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and let it close behind him with a soft click.
The room was dark. He didn't turn on the light. He stood in the dim glow of the streetlamp filtering through the curtains, the blazer pressed against his chest, and let himself breathe. The smell of her—faint, floral, clean—clung to the fabric. He lifted it to his face and inhaled, his eyes closing.
He dropped the blazer on the bed. His hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it with practiced efficiency. His slacks fell to his ankles. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his cock already half-hard, straining against his boxers. He freed it with a slow, deliberate motion, his fingers wrapping around the shaft.
He didn't start moving yet. He closed his eyes and let the image form—Teena in the black lace, the delicate fabric cupping her breasts, the thin straps over her shoulders. He saw her standing before him, her dark eyes wide, her lips parted. He saw her reach behind her back, unclasp the bra, let it fall. Her breasts would be small, perky, the nipples dark and hard against the cool air.
His hand tightened. He began to stroke, slow at first, his thumb tracing the ridge of his cock. He imagined her kneeling before him, her fingers replacing his, her mouth opening, her tongue—warm, wet, hesitant—touching the tip. He imagined her looking up at him, her eyes asking permission, her voice cracked and soft: Like this?
"Like that," he whispered into the dark room. His hand moved faster.
The fantasy shifted. He saw her on the bed, the black panties still on, the lace stretched thin over the curve of her ass. He saw himself behind her, his hands on her hips, his thumb hooking the fabric aside. He saw the glisten of her arousal, the way her body yielded to his pressure, the sound she made when he pushed inside her—a gasp, a whimper, his name.
His breathing grew ragged. He imagined her legs wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his back, her voice cracked and desperate: Please. Please. He imagined filling her, the heat of her, the tightness, the way she would clench around him as he came, her body shuddering, her mouth open against his neck, his name falling from her lips like a prayer.
He was close now. His hand was a blur, his hips thrusting into his fist, his mind full of her—the black lace, the wet sound of her, the taste of her skin. He imagined her beneath him, her hair spread across the pillow, her eyes glassy, her mouth saying his name. He imagined breeding her, the word burning in his skull, the thought of his seed filling her, claiming her, marking her as his.
"Teena," he groaned, the name a broken thing in the dark.
He came hard, his body arching off the bed, his hand pumping through the pulse of it. Hot and thick, it spilled over his fingers, onto his stomach, onto the sheets. He didn't stop, didn't slow, riding the wave until there was nothing left but the aftershocks, the trembling, the silence.
He opened his eyes. The room was still dark. His chest heaved. He looked down at his hand, at the mess on his skin, at the damp spot spreading on the mattress. He reached for the hotel hand towel on the nightstand—white, thin, absorbent—and wiped himself clean. The fabric soaked up the evidence, the warmth of it seeping into his palm.
He sat there for a long moment, the towel clutched in his fist, the image of Teena in black lace fading slowly. He brought the towel to his face, inhaled. The smell of himself, of her phantom presence, of the night ahead. He dropped it on the floor.
He stood, pulled up his slacks, buckled his belt. The blazer lay on the bed where he'd dropped it. He picked it up, folded it neatly, and set it on the desk chair. Then he walked to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and washed his hands, watching the water swirl the evidence down the drain.
He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were dark, satisfied, hungry. He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
Downstairs, the restaurant was still waiting. He had calls to make. But first, he let himself remember the way the black lace had felt in his hands, the way her name had sounded in his mouth, the way the fantasy had filled him. It would be enough. For now.
He dried his hands, adjusted his collar, and walked back into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. He carefully returned her blazer back to hamper downstairs.