1. The Elevator

She stepped into the elevator with her heart already racing.

Floor 1 to 44.

A long ride.

But not long enough to stop what was about to happen.

She barely made it to the back wall before she felt it—him—step in behind her. The doors slid shut with a soft chime. No other passengers. Just the two of them.

And the silence between them.

He didn’t say her name.

He didn’t need to.

The sound of his slow breath behind her said enough. The way the air changed—thicker, hotter, as if the elevator itself knew what was coming.

She held her coffee cup like a shield. But her fingers trembled around it.

Then—

“Put it down.”

Low. Commanding.

Her spine tingled.

She placed the cup on the elevator rail, her hands suddenly too empty. Too exposed.

His breath brushed her neck.

“Hands on the wall. Don’t turn around.”

She obeyed.

Her palms met the cold mirror as her reflection stared back—wide eyes, lips parted, chest rising fast beneath her blouse. The silk was thin. Too thin. She hadn’t worn a bra.

She hadn't expected him today.

She should’ve known better.

He stepped closer. His chest just behind her back, not touching—almost. Enough to feel the heat of his body wrap around her like a second skin.

“This skirt…” he murmured, voice like velvet against her neck. “This tight little skirt. You wore this for me, didn’t you?”

His fingers brushed the hem—so softly she wasn’t sure if she imagined it. But then they slid up. Higher. Slower. Curling under the fabric like he was unwrapping a gift.

She gasped when his palm cupped her bare ass.

“No panties,” he growled.

She bit her lip.

“That’s my girl.”

His other hand reached forward, fingers wrapping around her throat from behind. Not squeezing—just holding. A reminder. A promise. That she belonged to him in every way.

“How wet are you already?”

She couldn’t answer.

He didn’t wait.

His fingers slipped between her thighs—bold, claiming. Two fingers gliding up her slick folds like they knew the path. His touch was practiced, intimate, possessive.

“Soaked,” he chuckled darkly. “And I haven’t even bent you over yet.”

She moaned—quiet, needy—but the walls echoed it back.

Ding. Floor 15.

He didn’t stop.

His fingers pushed inside—slow, deliberate. Curling just right. Her body arched. Her reflection showed everything: her mouth wide open, eyes half-lidded, hands still flat against the mirror like a good girl.

“Don’t come yet,” he whispered, thumb circling her clit like fire.

She trembled.

“I said—don’t.”

She held it. Barely. Legs shaking.

Floor 20.

He pulled his fingers out. Slick. Shining.

He brought them to her lips. Her mouth opened automatically.

“Good,” he praised as she sucked them clean. “You taste like surrender.”

Then his fingers gripped her hair—tight, tight—and pulled her back against his chest.

“You come when I say. Not before. Not in the elevator.”

A pause.

“But when we reach my floor...”