I Promise

Holly walked in exactly at eight. Petra froze. Her glass trembled against her lip. One year. No calls. No texts. Just the memory of that last night in this same room, sheets tangled, sweat cooling on bare skin. Holly dropped her coat on the barstool. Black silk clung to her like it knew where to touch. She didn’t smile yet. Her eyes locked on Petra’s mouth first, then the low cut of the black dress that Petra kept smoothing over her thighs. The silence between them felt louder than any promise they’d made twelve months ago. Petra set the glass down hard. "You came," she breathed. Holly crossed the space. Her fingers traced the inside of Petra’s wrist, the pulse point she remembered kissing until it bruised. She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Petra’s ear. "Tell me you still want this." Petra’s answer was a hand sliding up Holly’s stockinged thigh, past the lace band, finding heat already slick between her legs. Holly made a small sound—half laugh, half moan—against Petra’s throat. "Take me upstairs," she whispered. "Now." They didn’t make it past the elevator. Holly shoved Petra against the mirrored wall, dress bunched at her waist, fingers pushing silk aside to find Petra’s bare cunt. Two strokes and Petra was shaking. Holly dropped to her knees like she belonged there, tongue flicking once, twice, then pushing deep. Petra’s hand fisted in blond hair while the elevator climbed, too slow, too fast, the wet sounds of Holly’s mouth echoing off the polished steel. The doors opened. Holly stood, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and smiled for the first time. "Your room or mine?"