This erotic short story is meant for english language audiences.
If you want to read our Norwegian erotic short stories («erotiske noveller») you will find those here.
Asphalt Serenade
The rain poured down in buckets, turning the highway into a blurry mess of asphalt and bad choices. It was past midnight, and everything outside Jack Carver’s beat-up Chevy looked like a runny painting, headlights smearing into the dark, mile markers popping up for a second before the downpour swallowed them. Jack leaned over the wheel, his trench coat wet at the shoulders, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He was 38, wiry and worn thin, with a face shaped by too many late nights and not enough answers, a sharp jaw, tired eyes, and a scar cutting through his left brow from a job that went south years ago. A private eye in a city that ate dreamers alive, he ran on coffee, bourbon, and a stubborn need to chase shadows nobody else cared about.
Tonight’s shadow was a missing woman, Clara Voss, married to a shipping bigshot who’d slipped Jack a thick wad of cash to track her down before the papers got wind of it. The trail had dried up in the city, but a tip from a dockside rat sent him out here, forty miles west on Route 9, where the pines stood tall and dark and the road stretched into nothing. The radio spit static, a faint jazz tune fading in and out, and Jack’s fingers tapped the wheel, antsy. He wasn’t looking for company, not until he spotted her.
She was standing under a crooked streetlamp, thumb out, a lone shape in the rain. Her figure was all curves and secrets, a black dress sticking to her like it was painted on, water plastering her hair to her neck. Jack eased off the gas, tires hissing on the wet road, and leaned over to roll down the passenger window. “You lost, lady?” he called, voice rough like he’d gargled rocks, the cigarette bouncing.
She stepped closer, and the lamp’s dim light hit her face, pale and sharp, with lips red as trouble and eyes dark as the storm. Mid-30s, maybe, with a smoker’s rasp and a walk that said she’d seen worse than this. “Not lost,” she said, leaning in, rain dripping off her chin. “Just stuck. Car quit a mile back. You going anywhere dry?” Her voice was smooth, like whiskey wrapped in velvet, a lounge singer’s drawl that warmed Jack up slow. He nodded, tossing the cigarette out into the wet. “Hop in.”
She slid into the seat, the door banging shut with a soggy thud, and the car smelled like cigarettes, wet silk, and a hint of flowers trying to push through. Her name was Lila, she said, no last name given, and Jack didn’t push. “Lousy night to be hitching,” he muttered, pulling back onto the road, wipers slapping unevenly. She smirked, twisting water out of her hair, drops pooling on the cracked vinyl. “Lousier night to be driving solo, mister. What’s your deal?”
“Work,” he said, keeping it short, eyes on the dark strip of highway. “Chasing a ghost.” She laughed, a low, husky sound, and pulled a flask from her purse, unscrewing it with a quick twist. “Who isn’t?” She took a sip, then held it out, bourbon, cheap and biting. He took it, their fingers brushing, and the heat of the liquor cut through the cold soaking into him.
The miles melted together, rain pounding the roof, and Lila tossed out bits of her story, a singer playing dives from here to the coast, her car a heap that finally croaked. Jack gave her bits back, ex-cop turned PI, a case keeping him awake, the city’s grime stuck to him. Their talk circled around, poking and prodding, the bourbon going back and forth until the flask was empty. Her leg bumped his as she shifted, and he caught the spark in her eye, trouble he knew he should dodge but couldn’t help chasing.
A neon sign blinked up ahead, Motel 9, Vacancy, its red glow smudging through the rain like a fresh cut. Jack pulled into the gravel lot, tires crunching, and cut the engine. “Best I’ve got,” he said, nodding at the low row of rooms, all dark except one flickering light. Lila tilted her head, sizing him up, then smiled slow. “It’ll work.” They ran through the rain, Jack’s coat over her shoulders, and he paid cash to a clerk who didn’t blink at their wet clothes or the buzz between them.
Room 7 stank of mildew and old smoke, the bed sagging under a worn quilt, thunder grumbling outside like a heads-up. Jack shook water off his hat, tossing it on a chair, while Lila kicked off her heels, her dress hugging her tighter now, showing every line of her. She caught him staring, and her smirk turned sharp. “Got a light?” she asked, digging a crumpled pack of smokes from her purse. He pulled out a Zippo, flicking it on, and she leaned in close, her fingers brushing his as she lit up. The flame danced in her eyes, and the air got heavy, more than just rain and tobacco hanging there.
She blew out a slow cloud of smoke, then stepped closer, her voice dropping to that smoky purr. “You’re not just a ghost-chaser, huh?” Her hand landed on his chest, wet fabric sticking to him, and Jack’s pulse kicked up. “And you’re not just a singer,” he fired back, his hand finding her waist, the bourbon’s warmth still in his throat. Thunder boomed, loud and close, and the gap between them closed, secrets and scars ready to spill in the neon glow.
The motel room buzzed with the steady tap of rain on the window, broken up by the occasional rumble of thunder. The single bulb overhead hummed, throwing a weak yellow light over the peeling wallpaper and the bed’s ratty quilt, its edges unraveling like the night. Jack stood by the door, trench coat dripping onto the creaky floor, his breath short as Lila’s smoke drifted upward. She was close now, real close, her soaked dress clinging to her like a second skin, the black fabric see-through where it stuck to her hips and chest. Her cigarette hung from those red lips, and when she breathed out, the smoke floated into his face, a hazy nudge he couldn’t ignore.
She stubbed the cigarette out on the chipped nightstand, ash smearing, and stepped right into him, fingers spreading across his chest. “Rough night,” she murmured, voice low and smoky, and before Jack could grunt back, her lips hit his, slow and sure, tasting of tobacco and the bourbon they’d passed around. The kiss got deeper, her tongue sliding against his, warm and smooth, pulling the breath right out of him. She pulled back just long enough to grab the flask, empty now, but she tilted it anyway, letting the last drops splash onto his shirt, then leaned in, spitting a sip of whiskey she’d held onto his chest. The liquid soaked in, cold and sharp, and she licked it off, running her tongue over the rough scar above his collarbone. Jack’s breath caught, a low rumble in his throat as her teeth grazed the old mark, stirring heat under the damp.
“Jesus, lady,” he rasped, hands grabbing her hips, fingers pressing into the wet silk. She grinned against his skin, pulling back to look at him, her eyes dark and full of trouble. “You’re a wreck,” she teased, and he didn’t argue, yanking his tie off with one hand, the soaked fabric heavy. He caught her wrists, quick and steady, looping the tie around them in a loose knot, not tight, just enough to hold her arms back. She didn’t push back, just raised a brow, her lips parting with a soft hum, a tune he knew from the radio’s faint jazz, slow and sultry. “Fancy,” she whispered, and Jack’s grin showed teeth as he nudged her back against the wall, the plaster cool through her dress.
His free hand slid down, hiking her skirt up to her thighs, her rain-slicked skin shining in the dim light. He found her, no underwear in the way, just warmth and wet that matched the storm outside. His fingers slipped in, two at first, moving slow and deep, and she hummed louder, the sound buzzing in her chest as her hips shifted into his hand. “Sing for me,” he muttered, voice gritty, and she did, soft, shaky notes spilling out as he kept going, his thumb brushing her clit, slick and steady. Her head fell back, throat open, and the hum turned into a moan, raw and deep, bouncing off the moldy walls.
Thunder shook the window, and Lila dropped to her knees, wrists still tied, the tie dangling like a loose tether. She looked up at him, lipstick smeared, rain-streaked face framed by wet curls, and Jack’s stomach tightened. She nuzzled his crotch, nose brushing the bulge in his pants, then tugged the zipper down with her teeth, slow and messy, a little show that had him cursing under his breath. He sprang free, hard and ready, and she took him in, lips closing tight, sucking him deep with a hunger that left red streaks on him. Her tongue moved, hot and wet, and she gagged a little, spit dripping down her chin as she kept going, the tie keeping her hands behind her. Jack’s fingers twisted in her hair, guiding her, his hips jerking as she pulled groans from him that matched the thunder.
“Damn, Lila,” he growled, voice rough and breaking, and she pulled off with a wet sound, grinning up at him, lipstick a mess, her tongue flicking out to catch a drop. “Finish it,” she said, low and bold, and he didn’t need more. He shoved his pants down further, hand wrapping around himself, moving fast and hard while she knelt there, rain-streaked and waiting. Her tongue teased the tip, and that was it, Jack finished quick, hitting her face with thick streaks that mixed with the water still dripping from her hair. She caught what she could, licking at the drops, a soft hum starting up again as she looked at him, fearless and grinning.
He stumbled back, chest heaving, and she stood, wrists still tied, wiping her chin with her shoulder as the tie slipped off, landing in a wet pile. The room spun, bourbon and smoke hanging thick, and Jack dropped onto the bed, the springs groaning under him. Lila climbed up too, kicking the quilt aside, her dress a wreck now, sticking to her thighs. “Some detour,” she said, voice quiet but still rough with that singer’s edge, and Jack chuckled, low and worn out, digging a fresh cigarette from his coat pocket.
“Some night,” he shot back, lighting it with a shaky hand, the flame flaring for a second in the dark. Thunder rolled again, softer now, and the rain kept tapping against the glass. Secrets still floated between them, Clara Voss’s ghost, Lila’s untold past, but for now, the motel held them tight, a grimy hideout where the storm played their tune.
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