Suite Service
A Room Service, Sir? Bonus Chapter
by Chase Power
⚠️ This bonus chapter contains spoilers for Room Service, Sir? and explicit sexual content. It takes place eighteen months after the main novel. Reader discretion advised — and encouraged.
Suite Service
Elliot
I booked the presidential suite at the Halcyon Grand under a fake name, which is ironic because eighteen months ago the most important guest I ever checked in did the same thing.
The reservation is under Park-Ashford. Not a real surname — not yet, anyway — but it makes Maeve laugh when she sees it on the system, and making Maeve laugh is one of life’s smaller, harder-won victories.
“The presidential suite,” she says, processing my card with the particular expression of a woman who trained me, promoted me, hugged me when I left, and is now checking me in as a guest. “You know we renovated the bathroom. Six shower heads now.”
“I know. I consulted on the renovation.”
“From the Orpheum. By phone. While your boyfriend hovered.”
“He doesn’t hover. He loiters with intent.”
She slides the key card across the desk with the practiced grace of a woman who has done this forty thousand times. The gold chain at my throat catches the lobby light — the same chain, always the same chain, though now it sits against the collar of a shirt that costs more than it used to because Graham buys me shirts and I’ve learned to let him, selectively, when the gift comes with a question instead of a receipt.
“Happy anniversary, Elliot.”
“Thank you, Maeve.”
“Don’t break the shower. We just installed it.”
“I make no promises.”
I take the elevator to eighteen. The velvet walls are the same. The brass panel with its arrow dial is the same. The building breathes the way it always breathed — white orchids and old wood and the hush of thick carpet — and I stand in the elevator that used to take me to work and now takes me to a suite I’ve booked with my own money for one specific, filthy, thoroughly premeditated purpose.
The suite is immaculate. King bed, turned down, chocolate on the pillow. The arched windows frame Manhattan in black and gold. The fireplace is already lit — I called ahead, because I am a man who knows how to set a scene. I set the Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle, open the minibar, and find it stocked exactly to my specifications: Elijah Craig, sparkling water, and the dark chocolate Maeve keeps for VIPs. She added a note: Enjoy. This room has heard worse.
I change. Out of my clothes, into Graham’s white dress shirt — the one I stole from his side of the closet this morning. It’s too wide across the shoulders. The sleeves hang past my wrists. I button it to the third button and leave the rest open. I put nothing else on.
Then I sit on the edge of the bed and text my boyfriend.
Halcyon Grand. Presidential suite. Room service, please.
Graham
The text arrives while I’m knotting my tie. I read it three times. Then I undo the tie, change my shirt to the dark one Elliot bought me for my birthday, and call a car.
Devon is at the concierge desk when I arrive. He grins — the same grin from the night Elliot first took my check-in, the one that says I know exactly what’s happening and I am enjoying it enormously.
“Mr. Ashford. Welcome back.”
“I need a bottle of Elijah Craig and a room-service cart.”
“Already arranged. Mr. Park left very detailed instructions.” Devon slides a cart from behind the desk — white cloth, the bourbon, two glasses, and a small card in Elliot’s precise handwriting: Deliver personally. Do not knock. Walk in. Enjoy the view.
I push the cart to the elevator. My hands are steady. My pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. Eighteen months of this man and my body still responds to the promise of him like a circuit closing.
Elliot
I hear the cart before I hear him. The soft roll of wheels on the hallway carpet, the particular unhurried pace of a man who has decided to commit to the bit.
The door opens. Graham pushes the cart inside and closes the door behind him and stands in the presidential suite looking at me, and the expression on his face — the rapid sequence from surprise to heat to a hunger so naked it makes my cock twitch under the shirt — is worth every dollar I spent on this room.
“Good evening, Mr. Park,” he says. The CEO voice, pitched low, laced with play. “I understand you requested room service.”
“I did.” I don’t stand. I stay on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, his shirt falling open across my chest, the gold chain visible. “I’ve been waiting.”
His eyes travel. Down the open collar. Across the bare chest. To the hem of the shirt where it rests mid-thigh, the fabric just barely covering what’s underneath, which is nothing. His jaw does the thing I’ve been reading for eighteen months — the clench, the slow grind of his back teeth, the tell that means his composure is taking damage.
He pours the bourbon with hands that betray him only in the slight over-pour. Sets the glass on the nightstand. Steps back to the cart.
“The bourbon is complimentary,” he says. “We also have a selection of late-night amenities. The kitchen is closed, but for a valued guest, I can arrange something… personalized.”
“What does personalized look like?”
“That depends entirely on the guest’s preferences.” He moves closer. Close enough that I can smell him — the cologne I bought him, the clean cotton of the dark shirt, the warm skin underneath. “We pride ourselves on anticipating needs. But I find the best service is directed. Tell me what you want, Mr. Park. I’ll deliver.”
“I want you to take off your shirt. Slowly.”
He doesn’t break character. Each button unfastened with deliberate eye contact, the dark fabric parting to reveal the broad chest, the silver hair, the body I have mapped with my mouth a thousand times and still want to map again. The shirt drops to the suite floor.
“And the belt,” I say.
The belt slides free with a sound that echoes in the quiet room. He holds it for a beat — a question, an offer — and I shake my head with a half-smile. Not tonight. Tonight is simpler than that.
“Everything else.”
He strips for me in the firelight of the presidential suite. Trousers, socks, boxers. Each piece removed with the same deliberate precision he brings to undressing me, but reversed — the CEO stripping for the concierge, the guest performing for the host. He stands naked in the warm light and he is beautiful — broad-shouldered, athletic, hard already, his cock curving up thick and flushed, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing.
“Come here,” I say.
“Sir, the concierge shouldn’t be in the guest’s bed.”
“The concierge is naked and hard in the guest’s room. I think we’re past policy.”
“Excellent point.” He crosses the remaining distance and kneels. Between my legs. His hands on my thighs, pushing the shirt higher, and his mouth finds my knee, then my inner thigh, then the crease where thigh meets hip, and I grab a fistful of his silver hair and groan.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says against my skin. “All day. While you thought we were going to dinner.” His mouth moves higher. His breath is hot on my cock through the thin shirt fabric. “I was sitting in a meeting about zoning variances and I was thinking about your thighs.”
“Zoning variances.”
“I may have approved something I shouldn’t have. Your thighs are a liability to municipal planning.”
I laugh. He uses the moment — my body loose, my guard down — to push the shirt up and take my cock into his mouth in one smooth, devastating stroke.
The laugh becomes a moan. My head falls back. His mouth is hot and tight and the suction is immediate — no teasing, no warm-up, just the full, wet slide of his tongue along my length and his hand wrapping around the base and the specific, calibrated rhythm he’s perfected over eighteen months of learning exactly how to unmake me.
He pulls back to the tip. Swirls his tongue around the head. Looks up at me from his knees on the carpet of the presidential suite and the image — Graham Ashford, billionaire developer, kneeling naked between my thighs with his lips wrapped around my cock and his dark eyes locked on mine — is the most erotic thing I have ever seen in my life and I have seen it dozens of times and it destroys me every single time.
“Your mouth,” I manage. “Graham — your fucking mouth —”
He takes me deep. My cock hits the back of his throat and he swallows around me and my hips buck forward and he holds them — hands on my hips, thumbs on the bones, pressing me into the mattress while he works me with long, relentless strokes that build the heat at the base of my spine into something that’s going to detonate if he doesn’t stop.
“Stop. Stop — I want more than your mouth tonight.”
He pulls off. Wipes his lips with the back of his hand. The gesture is so obscenely casual, so unperformative, that my cock throbs at the sight.
“Get on the bed,” I tell him. “On your back.”
He obeys. Climbs onto the king bed and lies back against the pillows and he’s sprawled on the white sheets, hard and flushed and waiting. The firelight turns his skin to amber. His cock is thick against his stomach, leaking at the tip, and I straddle his thighs and wrap my hand around him and stroke slowly and watch his eyes flutter shut.
“Open your eyes,” I say. “Watch me.”
He watches. I reach behind myself with slick fingers — I prepped in the shower before he arrived, because I am a professional who plans — and slide two fingers inside myself while straddling his lap, my other hand still stroking his cock. His hands grip the sheets. His abs clench. He makes a sound that starts as my name and ends as something wordless.
“You’re killing me,” he says.
“You’ll survive.” I add a third finger. Rock against my own hand. Let him see everything — my body opening, my cock hard between us, the shirt hanging off one shoulder, the chain swinging. “I want you to last. So you’re going to wait.”
“Elliot —”
“Wait.”
I make him wait. I make him watch me prepare myself, watch me shiver and moan on my own fingers, watch me stroke his cock in slow, maddening pulls that keep him on the edge without letting him tip. His thighs are shaking under me. His hands are fisted in the sheets. He is the most disciplined man I’ve ever known and I am systematically dismantling that discipline with my bare hands.
When I’m ready — when he’s past ready, when his cock is so hard it’s practically vibrating — I roll the condom onto him and position myself and sink down in one long, unbroken stroke.
We both cry out. The sound bounces off the suite’s arched ceiling. His hands fly to my hips and I let them stay — no pinning tonight, no power games. Just his hands on my body and mine on his chest and the perfect, overwhelming fullness of him inside me.
I ride him. Slow at first — long, grinding rolls that draw him almost out and take him deep again. His eyes are open. Locked on mine. The firelight flickers across his face and I can see every response — the parted lips, the clenched jaw, the moment each stroke hits him right and his composure fractures by another degree.
“Faster,” he says.
I go faster. Bracing my hands on his chest, fingers digging into muscle, I pick up the pace until the bed protests and his hips are meeting mine on every downstroke and the slap of skin on skin fills the presidential suite like something obscene and sacred at the same time.
He wraps his hand around my cock. Strokes in time. The dual sensation — him inside me and his fist around me — coils the heat at the base of my spine into a knot that’s going to break me.
“Together,” I gasp. “With me — now —”
I come first — clenching around him, spilling over his fist and across his stomach in long, pulsing streaks, my body locking, my vision whiting out. He follows a breath later, thrusting up hard, his cock pulsing deep inside me, my name wrecked and raw in his throat.
I collapse onto his chest. We breathe. His heartbeat hammers against my ear. The fire crackles. The city glitters through the arched windows.
“That,” he says eventually, “was significantly better than the Italian place.”
“The Italian place doesn’t have six shower heads.”
He lifts his head. “The shower.”
“Maeve said don’t break it. I made no promises.”
The shower in the renovated presidential suite is an engineering marvel. Glass-enclosed, stone-tiled, with six adjustable heads that create a rainfall effect from three angles. I consulted on this renovation. I specified the tile. I chose the water pressure.
I did not, at the time, envision testing it with Graham’s back against the stone and my mouth on his neck and steam turning the glass opaque around us.
The water is hot. It pours over us from multiple angles — shoulders, chest, the small of the back — and every stream creates a different sensation, a different temperature, a different point of contact. Graham’s skin is slick under my hands. His body is warm and solid against mine. I pin him to the tile wall and kiss him while the water cascades between us, and he grabs my ass with both hands and pulls me tight against him and I can feel him hardening again against my hip.
“Already?” I murmur against his throat.
“You’re naked and wet and pressing me against a wall. What did you expect?”
“I expected you’d need at least twenty minutes.”
“I’m forty-nine, not dead.”
I drop to my knees on the shower floor. The stone is warm from the hot water. The steam surrounds us. I look up at him through the spray — water running between us, his chest heaving, his cock thickening inches from my face — and I take him into my mouth.
The shower changes everything. The water makes every sensation more intense — the heat, the slickness, the way his cock slides against my tongue. I grip his hips and hold him against the wall and suck him with an urgency that the first round’s satisfaction has done nothing to diminish. I want him again. I want him always. Eighteen months and the wanting hasn’t mellowed; it’s just become more specific, more fluent, more precisely calibrated to the exact combination of pressure and depth and rhythm that makes Graham Ashford lose his mind.
He comes in my mouth with his hand braced against the glass and my name echoing off stone tile, and I swallow every drop while the six shower heads rain down on us like applause.
He pulls me to my feet. Kisses me — tasting himself, groaning at it. His hand wraps around my cock, already painfully hard again, and jerks me fast and rough against the tile wall while the water pours over his fist and my hips and the sound I make when I come is swallowed by his mouth and the steam.
We stand in the shower for a long time after. Holding each other up. The water turns from hot to warm. His forehead rests against mine. His hands are gentle on my waist — his default, his anchor, the place on my body his hands have mapped so thoroughly they could navigate it blind.
“I think we tested the shower adequately,” he says.
“Three heads remain untested. We should be thorough.”
“In the morning.”
“In the morning.”
We lie in bed afterward. Clean, warm, wrapped in the Halcyon’s robes — the thick white ones that I specified the thread count for when I still worked here. The fire has burned to embers. The bourbon is half-gone. The Do Not Disturb sign hangs on the door and the city breathes outside and neither of us is going anywhere.
“Happy anniversary,” I say.
“You booked the presidential suite.”
“I booked the presidential suite. With my own money. And my own name. And a room-service card that said deliver personally.” I press my mouth to his shoulder. “You delivered.”
“I had excellent instructions.” His arm tightens around me. “Eighteen months ago you stood in this room and told me you couldn’t be my concierge and my lover. That I had to check out and ask you on a date like a normal person.”
“And you did.”
“And I did. And you took me to a diner. And I made terrible eggs. And you pinned me to a wall. And you built a hotel. And I learned how to fill a coffee maker.” He presses his mouth to my hair. “And now we’re back in this room and you’re the guest and I’m the one delivering the bourbon and neither of us is pretending about anything.”
“Sappy.”
“True.”
“Also true.” I look at him in the ember-light — his silver hair dark with shower water, his face relaxed in a way it only gets when we’re alone, the scar on his chin that I have kissed a thousand times. “Room service, sir?”
“Always,” he says. “Always, always, always.”
He kisses me. I close my eyes. The Halcyon holds us in its century-old arms, and the Do Not Disturb sign stays on the door, and the morning can wait.
The morning can wait.