Friday nights at the Montague Hotel have become my favorite thing in the whole world.

See, every Friday night since I gained control of my powers, my routine is the same. I slip out of the mansion, unnoticed, unmissed, dressed in as little as possible, and I head to the bar at the Montague Hotel.

It's a nice bar, upscale, the way you'd expect a posh Westchester hotel bar to be. There are leather seats and heavy wood tables. The bar itself is mahogany, and polished until it gleams.

Harry the bartender knows me now. I slide onto a stool and smile, and my Absolut and cranberry is in front of me almost before I put down my purse. When I first started coming here, Harry looked unhappy. I know he thought I was a hooker -- excuse me, call girl. I was shocked the first time one of the men in the bar approached me to negotiate a deal, but I've learned to laugh it off. Because I know if I get upset, Harry will tell him. And he won't take it kindly.

He's the only one I'm interested in. I hope he's here tonight. I scan the room casually, but he hasn't arrived yet.

That's the big secret. I've been meeting him on the sly for a couple of months now. We don't really talk much; I don't even know his last name and he doesn't know mine. We just have a drink and then fuck.

Last week, we went out to my car, and I gave him a blowjob, since I had my period and wasn't really up for anything else. The week before, he went down on me in the ladies' room. One time, we had sex in a booth way in the back of the bar. I had bruises on my back for a week from banging into the edge of the table.

"Is this seat taken?"

I inhale sharply. While I was reminiscing, he arrived.

"It is now, sugar."

He gives me a little half-smile and sits. Harry nods and puts a pint in front of him. He looks me up and down and that smile grows into a sexy grin as he takes in the floral sundress I have on.

"How've you been?" I ask, a little breathless from anticipation. I'm not wearing any panties, and I know he can see the shadow of my pussy through the dress when I move, even in the dim light of the bar. I can feel the humid rush of desire between my legs, and I don't even want to go through the usual chat before we get it on.

Most people would probably say I should be ashamed of fucking a man I met in a bar, but I'm not. Not when it feels so good. Not when I was starved for touch for so long.

His hand, long fingers with neatly trimmed nails, slides up my thigh. I turn to face him and part my legs, trying to let him know just how ready I am.

He throws a twenty down on the bar and offers me a hand. "Let's go," he says.

"Lead the way." I take his hand and he tucks it beneath his arm. He's really quite gallant. I was surprised by that, the first time he did it.

And another surprise -- we head toward the elevators instead of my car. I raise an eyebrow and he gives me the sexy grin again. "I have a room."

"Oh." We get on the elevator and I can feel desire uncurling in my stomach and radiating through my body. "I don't know if my husband would approve."

That checks him for an instant and he looks down at my left hand, which does, in fact, have a plain platinum band around the ring finger. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me softly. "Then you probably shouldn't tell him." He kisses me again before I can voice agreement.

His hands are everywhere, cupping my breasts, rubbing circles on my back and it feels so good. It's almost overwhelming, even now, the feel of skin on skin. I could almost come just from that.

As if he can read my mind, he leans over and pulls the emergency stop button. The elevator grinds to a halt and he walks me to the bar that lines the back wall of the car. He lifts me up so I'm sitting on it, and steps between my knees, all the while kissing me.

I moan when he eases the straps of my dress down and massages my nipples until they're hard and aching. Then he licks at them, sliding his tongue over the curve of my breast in slowly narrowing circles until he takes the nipple in his mouth and sucks, hard.

Electricity bolts through me and I arch into him, moaning, my hands anchored in his hair. I'm grinding against him, as he applies the same treatment to the other breast.

I unzip his jeans and pull his cock out. He's already slick with pre-come and I know neither of us is going to last long, and that's okay. Sometimes quick and dirty is the best way.

He widens his stance a little and I slide forward, trying to maintain my balance and get him inside of me at the same time.

"Naughty girl," he rumbles in my ear, his hands on my thighs, fingers digging into my ass. "You're so impatient."

"I want you inside me now," I say. He chuckles and kisses me, his tongue thrusting into my mouth the way his cock is pushing into my pussy. I close my eyes, reveling in the feel of him as he goes deeper and then pulls out.

In and out, in and out. He's controlling it and he's not going fast enough to suit me. "Harder," I whisper, gripping his biceps tightly. "Faster."

His teeth nip at my clavicle and he nods. His hips piston into mine, and the friction is so good it's almost unbearable. I open my eyes and he's staring at me.

I always try to keep my eyes open so I can watch him come, but I can't ever manage it. I'm usually so close to orgasm myself by that point that I can't think. I'm nothing but nerve endings and sensation.

Hot.

Wet.

His.

Everything inside my body tightens unbearably and I know I'm going to climax. I love that moment right before, when everything in me knows I'm going to come. Sometimes I wish it could last forever, that moment before you fall into bliss. I quiver with the knowledge before the orgasm rolls through me, making my whole body convulse. I tighten my grip around his cock, taking him even deeper as my hips buck up against his, hard, and I shudder in his arms.

I open my eyes and for once get to watch him, his hazel eyes glazed with passion, his body vibrating fiercely from the force of his orgasm.

"Fuck, Marie," he groans, and I can feel the liquid warmth of his come inside me.

"Logan," I sigh. "Love you so much."

"Love you too, baby."

I can never keep the pretense up at that point; I can't pretend he's not my husband as well as my lover. I love him too much, and the rest is secondary, a silly game of thrills and secrets we play with each other.

We ride out the last waves of our climax together, and then he pulls out a handkerchief to help me clean up before he starts the elevator on its way up to his room.

Friday nights at the Montague Hotel.

I wouldn't give them up for anything.

End