Dine me. Adult short fiction doesn't work anymore

Solar-panel honey trap,
light of no one's loins yet always turned on in the Travelodge light,
reads adult short fiction on her Kindle Paperwhite
while the man she stole is in the bathroom on another phone
talking to his wife telling her truths so far from the truth that to call it a lie would be lying.

They met on an ambiguous dating website
where the USP is that everyone is married
and everyone wants to leave,
and now, come to think of it,
that's how the Premier Inns of this world
make their money:
night-away rooms used for hours at a time and home by 5,
tea and coffee making facilities used for half-drunk cups
and biscuit packets torn, thrown onto floors, not eaten.
Crumbs.

Today and tonight they stay over together,
an adult sleepover with a mini bar and a volume restricted TV,
and each have rung,
with excuses spoken through a throw away phone bought the previous day,
their partners saying why this conference-away-again is
directly linked with this month's bonus,
and if we want to go to New York for new years then this two days away from each other again,
second time this month,
is a small sacrifice to make.

Solar-panel money trap man,
assortment of BMW twelve-volt lighter iPhone chargers yet no one to call,
talks bullshit to a bull who knows it's just a red cloth
while the woman he stole is in bed, another bed from last time,
reading her way through some adult short fiction to stimulate something down there ready for later, when in 
reality the words on that e-ink screen are as far from romance as this hotel meet-up scenario is.