Stolen moments

I pushed the cleaning cart into room 1207, the air still holding last night’s scent. My girlfriend followed, stripping the bed. Under the pillows and in the drawers we found three unopened condoms—hotel freebies guests rarely finish. “Another score,” she chuckled, eyes suddenly dimming. I knew her thoughts. Last month we almost got caught; the supervisor warned us. Yet touching those smooth packs still stirred that secret thrill. I hugged her from behind, chin on her shoulder. “Ah, if we get found out someday…” “Then we get fired together.” She turned, voice low. “This hotel never gave us a future. At least now we can secretly enjoy something of our own.” She stuffed the condoms in my pocket and pulled me to the bed’s edge. We quickly undid our uniforms. She braced on the floor as I entered from behind—movements restrained but hard, fearing noise outside. Pleasure hit fast, I buried my face in her shoulder. Afterwards we fixed our clothes and kept cleaning. She hid the extras under the cart, glanced at me with a small smile. “We’ll use them slowly at home tonight,” she whispered. I nodded, heart suddenly empty. This joy felt stolen—brief, dangerous. But as long as she stole it with me, I wouldn’t stop.