It started with a look—just a look.
They stepped into the elevator together at 11:37 p.m., both damp from the summer storm outside. Her dress clung to her like second skin, rain-slicked and scandalous, the thin fabric revealing more than concealing. He noticed. She noticed him noticing.
Neither said a word.
He pressed the button for the 26th floor. She didn’t press anything. The doors slid shut.
The hum of the elevator filled the silence. Their reflections stared back from the mirrored walls—two strangers, too close.
Her perfume was heady: jasmine and something darker, like secrets. He inhaled it like a drug. She turned slightly, just enough for her thigh to graze his. It could’ve been accidental. It wasn’t.
Still, no words.
By the 12th floor, the air was electric.
By the 16th, his hand brushed hers—lightly, deliberately. She didn't pull away. She curled her fingers around his, slow and bold.
By the 21st, he had her against the wall.
Mouths inches apart. Breathing fast. Her leg slid between his, and she felt the tension he was barely containing.
"Say stop," he whispered.
She didn’t.
Instead, her lips grazed his jaw, trailing heat to his ear. “You first.”
He groaned—low, primal. Then their mouths met, hungry and unrelenting, hands exploring, claiming. Her fingers tugged his tie loose, his palm skimmed up her thigh, under her dress, finding her slick with want.
The elevator chimed at 26. They didn’t move.
“Your room or mine?” she murmured, lips still on his.
He didn’t answer.
He just reached behind her and pressed the emergency stop.