POV Victor
"The epistemological implications of Kant's categorical imperative suggest that moral absolutes exist independent of consequence," the presenter drones from the podium, and all I can think about is how Elisa tastes when she comes on my tongue.
Montreal's Fairmont Queen Elizabeth hotel hosts this year's North American Philosophy Conference, three days of academics pretending their theories matter while secretly calculating tenure prospects. I'm supposed to be taking notes on deontological ethics, but my notebook contains only her flight number and arrival time—AC758, landing at 2:47 PM.
She shouldn't be here. I told her not to come when she texted about finding a suspiciously cheap ticket. But telling Elisa not to do something is like telling fire not to burn—pointless and potentially dangerous.
"Professor Larsen, your thoughts on the universalizability principle?"
"The principle assumes rational actors," I respond on autopilot. "But humans rarely act rationally, making universal moral laws functionally impossible."
"Fascinating perspective," someone responds, but I'm already checking my phone under the table.
She's landed. She's here. In this city where nobody knows us, where we can be strangers who happen to be destroying each other in the best possible way.
The logical part of my brain—the part that still functions when she's not in the room—does the math. She's on scholarship. Can barely afford textbooks without wincing. Her meal plan is the basic one, her dorm's a single only because her roommate dropped out. So how the fuck did she afford this?
The answer tastes bitter before I even think it: Kilian. Either she's using his money or she's back to earning it. The thought of what she might have done to afford this spontaneous international gesture makes my jaw clench.
Did you fuck him for plane fare?
The question burns in my throat, but I swallow it. We're here now. Whatever devil's bargain she made to afford this, we're both about to make it worthwhile.
The conference breaks for lunch, and I skip the networking session to meet her in room 811. She registered under the name Emma Laurent, paying cash like we're criminals who definitely committed the crime.
"You came," I say when she opens the door wearing nothing but one of my Oxford shirts, the blue one she stole from my office last Tuesday.
"Not yet," she grins, yanking me inside by my tie. "But the day's young and you look like you need corrupting."
"How did you even afford—" I start, but she cuts me off.
"Does it matter? I'm here." She's already attacking my belt buckle. "Unless you really want to discuss my financial aid situation while I'm not wearing underwear."
"Elisa—"
Her mouth crashes into mine before the door fully closes, her tongue aggressive, demanding. She tastes like airplane wine and bad decisions, and my hands find her bare thighs, lifting her against the wall.
"I've been thinking about you," I confess into her neck, biting hard enough to mark. "During lectures. Department meetings. When Clara touches me."
She wraps her legs around my waist, grinding against me through my conference slacks. "Good. Think about me when you're inside her. Think about how wet I get when you use that professor voice. Think about how I sound when you make me scream."
"Jesus, Elisa—"
"Emma," she corrects, already attacking my belt buckle with fingers that shake slightly. "Emma Laurent, your graduate student from NYU who's very interested in your theories on moral flexibility."
We fuck against the window first, fourteen floors up with Montreal spread below. Her breasts pressed against the cold glass, nipples hard as she gasps. My hands grip her hips hard enough to bruise while she leaves handprints on the window that housekeeping will definitely notice.
"Someone could see," she pants, but she's pushing back against me harder, taking me deeper.
"Let them," I growl, surprising myself with the exhibitionist thrill. "Let them see what happens when ethics professors lose their ethics."
Next is the bed, where she rides me reverse cowgirl while we watch ourselves in the mirror. The visual is obscene—her back arched, breasts bouncing, my hands spanning her waist. She reaches back to grip my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt in the best way.
"Look at us," she commands, her internal muscles clenching around me deliberately. "We're so fucking pretty when we're ruining everything."
The floor comes next because furniture is for people with dignity. She's on her hands and knees, ass in the air, and I can see how wet she is, glistening in the afternoon light. When I slide into her, we both groan like we're dying or being born or both.
"Harder," she demands, pushing back. "I want to feel you tomorrow. I want to sit in your wife's dining room and remember exactly how you fucked me in Montreal."
I grab her hair, pulling her head back, and she moans loud enough that room 812 definitely knows what's happening. Her whole body shudders when she comes, internal muscles milking me until I follow her over, filling her with everything I shouldn't be giving.
After, we order room service and she eats pasta primavera naked while I pretend to review conference papers, her feet in my lap, toes occasionally pressing against my recovering cock just to watch me try to concentrate.
"We could run away," she says during round three, my face buried between her thighs, tongue working her clit while two fingers curl inside her. "Just disappear. Become different people."
"Where?" I ask between strokes, her wetness coating my chin. "Where could we possibly go?"
"Anywhere that doesn't know we're a walking ethics violation," she gasps, thighs trembling. "Prague? Tokyo? Some small town in Oregon where everyone's too high to care about our age difference?"
I suck her clit hard, making her back arch off the bed. "There's nowhere that far. Nowhere far enough from what we are."
She comes again, legs shaking, my name on her lips like a prayer to a god who definitely isn't listening.
Later, she's sprawled across the bed, my cum leaking onto the expensive sheets. We look properly destroyed—her hair a mess, my back covered in scratch marks, both of us marked by each other in ways that won't fade quickly.
"What are we, exactly?" she asks, tracing the bite marks she left on my shoulder. "Besides the obvious disaster narrative?"
"Something that has an expiration date," I say before I can stop myself.
She stills. "What?"
"Nothing. I just meant—"
"No, what expiration date?" She props herself up on an elbow, studying my face. "What aren't you telling me?"
"There are things—complications with Liv's inheritance that—" I stop, because explaining would mean admitting I'm fucking her despite knowing exactly what it could cost my daughter. "It doesn't matter."
"It clearly does." Her voice goes cold. "Is this about money? Your reputation? What?"
"It's about three more—" I catch myself. "It's complicated."
"Three more what?" She's sitting up now, sheet pooled around her waist. "Three more months? Weeks? Three more what, Victor?"
"Forget I said anything."
"Oh, that's rich. You're literally inside me talking about expiration dates and I'm supposed to forget it?"
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Unknown number. I almost ignore it—probably spam or someone from the conference.
But something makes me reach for it, some instinct developed from weeks of bad decisions compounding into worse ones.
The message makes my blood freeze: "Nice conference. Room 412 has a great view of 811."