My Wife's Best Friend's Desperate Hotel Craving

The text came at 1:17 a.m.

Mark, my hotel room is flooded. Pipe burst in the wall, everything’s ruined. Sarah’s gone, I have nowhere else. Please. I’m already in the Uber. Ten minutes out.

He stared at the screen, heart thudding. Sarah was three states away at her conference. The house was quiet, too quiet. He typed back a single word.

Come.

By the time headlights swept across the front windows, Mark had already poured two glasses of the good red. He opened the door before she could knock.

Jenna stood on the porch like a soaked fantasy. The white tank top clung to her heavy breasts, completely see-through now, dark nipples stiff and obvious. Her tiny gray sleep shorts had ridden up between her thick thighs, the fabric darkened by water and something else. Her long chestnut hair stuck to her neck and shoulders. She looked like she’d been caught in a storm and hadn’t bothered to hide how her body reacted to it.

“Mark,” she breathed, voice shaky. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”

He stepped aside. She brushed past him, and the scent of her—warm skin, hotel soap, and unmistakable feminine musk—hit him like a drug. The damp cotton of her top dragged across his forearm. His cock twitched hard inside his sweatpants.

She dropped her small overnight bag in the hallway and turned to face him. The motion made her tits sway, nipples scraping against wet fabric. “I look like a mess.”

“You look…” He swallowed. “Let me get you a towel.”