New Year's Elevator Stop

The New Year's office party was at the penthouse on floor forty-five, and I was late, as usual. The black dress I'd bought with my last money turned out to be a weapon of mass destruction: it hugged every inch of me, and the neckline was so low I could feel the air conditioning blowing in the most unexpected places. The elevator—the only way up—gleamed like polished steel. I flew into it in high heels, almost tripping, and heard a calm male voice: - Allow me. He was already inside. Tall, in a perfectly tailored dark blue suit, jacket off, his tie loose around his neck. His gaze was appraising, but not insolent. I nodded, slipped into the corner, and pressed "45." His long, neatly manicured finger reached out next to him and pressed "48." We stood with our backs to each other, reflected in the mirrored walls. He smelled of something woody and cold, like a winter forest. The elevator slowly rose. I adjusted a strand of hair and caught his gaze in the reflection. He was looking. Not at my face. At my cleavage. And something warm and unsettling fluttered in my stomach. And suddenly—a sharp screeching noise, a jolt. The light flickered and went out, leaving only a dim emergency light somewhere near the floor. The elevator stopped. The silence became thick, physical. "Oh, shit," I blurted out, my heart pounding in my throat. "Looks like we're out of luck," he said. His voice was calm, almost amused. I laughed nervously. The sound was unnatural, shrill in that small steel box. "You have no idea how lucky I am. I'm already late for the biggest party of the year." "Me too," he said, turning to me. In the dim light, his features sharpened, his eyes dark abysses. "But perhaps this is a sign. I should slow down." He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, hanging on the crook of his arm, and pulled out… a small, flat bottle of champagne, the same one they give you in business class. "Just in case of emergency," he explained, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. "It seems more than just an emergency." He unscrewed the wire, his thumb deftly lifting the cork. The soft pop echoed loudly. He handed the bottle to me. — Ladies first. For courage. I took it. Our fingers touched. A spark. Silly, banal, but real, running across my skin. I threw my head back and took a big sip. A sparkling coolness spread down my throat, then warmth seeped inside. "Thank you," I whispered, handing the bottle back. Our eyes met and locked. He drank without taking his eyes off me. He watched as I involuntarily licked my lips. The silence fell again, but this time it was different. Filled with the scent of his perfume, my perfume, champagne, and something else—pure, animal tension. I could see his Adam's apple move as he swallowed. “What’s your name?” he asked, putting the bottle on the floor. - Anya. - Mark. He took a step forward. The space was so small that only thirty centimeters remained between us. The heat from his body reached me through the thin silk of my dress. “You know, Anya,” his voice became low, velvety, “in this black dress… you look like a sin that I really want to commit.” I should have laughed, joked, retreated. But my legs wouldn't obey. I felt his breath on my skin, on that very cleavage. My nipples tightened, pressing painfully against the fabric. He saw it. A shadow of satisfaction crossed his face. “We… we shouldn’t,” I breathed out, but it sounded like an invitation. "Why?" He touched my bare collarbone with his fingertip, then traced it down to the cleft between my breasts. "The elevator's broken. The world has stopped. No one will know." His finger was rough and warm. Goosebumps ran across my body. I closed my eyes. And when I opened them, his lips were a centimeter from mine. The first kiss was a question. A light touch. A test. I answered. The next one wasn't a question anymore. It was a declaration. His tongue entered my mouth with authority, the taste of champagne, man, something forbidden mingling. I screamed into his mouth, my fingers clutching his shirt. He pressed me against the cold wall of the elevator, and the contrast of temperatures—the icy steel against my back and the heat of his body in front—made me shudder. His hands slid down my sides, wrapped around my waist, then one palm pressed against the wall above my head, and the other… the other tugged at the zipper of my dress. A dry, sharp "zzzzz" sounded deafeningly loud in the silence. The dress loosened, slipping off my shoulders, revealing an underwire bra that now only accentuated my already revealing appearance. "God, you're beautiful," he whispered, his lips moving from my mouth to my neck, to my collarbone, lower. He caught the lace edge of my bra in his teeth and pulled it down. My breast spilled out, and his hot, wet mouth closed around my nipple. I screamed, throwing my head back. A sharp, sweet pain shot through me from my nipple to my crotch. I grabbed his hair, not knowing whether to push away or press harder. He sucked, bit, and licked, moving from one breast to the other, while his free hand lifted the hem of my dress. His fingers found the hem of my panties, the thin silk. "Mark..." I moaned, no longer able to pretend. My body screamed "yes," pulsating in time with his touch. “I know,” he murmured into my skin. “I know.” With one sharp movement, he ripped my panties off. The fabric tore with a soft rustle. His fingers immediately found me down there. I was wet, ready, spread. He ran one finger down my length, collecting the moisture, then slowly, impossibly slowly, inserted it inside. My legs buckled. He supported me, pressing me against the wall with his body. His finger moved inside, first one, then a second. Deeply, with honed skill, finding every sensitive spot. I moaned, biting my lip to keep from screaming. The sound of our ragged breaths, wet kisses, and the soft squelching of his fingers was more explicit than any pornography. "I want you," he breathed, and for the first time his voice was hoarse, the mask of control dropped. "Now. Here." He pulled back to undo his belt and fly. I helped him with trembling hands, hurrying, catching the buttons. His cock slid out—hard, hot, pulsing in my palm. It was large, thickly veined. I cupped it, ran my thumb over the sensitive head, and he exhaled sharply. “No, I can’t stand this,” he pushed my hand away. “Turn around.” He turned me around to face the wall. My reflection in the dim mirror was a blur: disheveled hair, bare back, dress pulled down to my waist. His hands settled on my hips, his thumbs digging into my flesh. He lifted me onto my toes and guided him. And he entered. Not with gradual tenderness, but one long, relentless, all-consuming thrust. I screamed. From surprise, from the fullness, from the way he stretched me, reaching my very limits. He paused for a second, letting me adjust, his chest pressed against my back, his lips to my ear. “Okay?” he whispered, and it wasn’t just a word, but a vibration running through my nerves. - Yes... God, yes... He began to move. Slowly at first, pulling out almost completely and then thrusting back in. Each thrust pressed my body against the cold wall, my nipples rubbing against the metal. Then he sped up. The rhythm became harder, more furious. His balls slapped against my crotch with each thrust. The sounds of our sex—wet, ringing blows, hoarse breathing, my muffled moan—filled the cabin. One of his hands remained on my hip, gripping it with a death grip, the other wrapped around my waist and moved down to where our bodies met. His thumb found my clit and began to press, circling it in time with his thrusts. It washed over me. The orgasm came unexpectedly, a wave that washed away all thought. My body clenched around his cock, convulsing in a silent scream. I trembled, my legs finally giving way, and he held me suspended, never ceasing his movement, only getting harder, faster, deeper, feeling my internal spasms. "Anya..." his voice broke. "I'll be right back..." He pulled out at the last moment. Hot streams splashed onto my back, my lowered dress, and the elevator wall. He breathed heavily, his forehead resting on my shoulder. We stood there, bound together, in the dim emergency light, in the smell of sex, sweat, and champagne. The silence returned. Only now it was sated. He carefully released me. I turned around, trembling, trying to pull up my dress. He took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket—silk, immaculate white—and silently began wiping my back, my thighs. His movements were unexpectedly gentle. Suddenly the elevator jerked. The light flashed, bright and blinding. We closed our eyes. The number "45" flashed on the display. The doors slid open with a soft hiss. I saw the bright light of the chandelier, heard laughter and music. The party's threshold was just steps away. Mark looked at me. His face was a mixture of surprise and something akin to regret. He picked up my torn panties from the floor and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. Then he handed me a small business card. “In case you get stuck again,” he said, the same smile that had been there at the beginning touching his lips. I took the card. Without looking at it, I stepped out of the elevator. My dress was crooked, my hair disheveled, and there was nothing underneath. I stepped into the noise of the party, feeling his touch on my skin, the stickiness of his seed under the fabric, the wild emptiness inside where he had just been. The elevator doors closed behind me, taking me to the 48th floor. I turned around. In farewell. Reflected in the polished doors, I saw my smile. Disheveled, guilty, and completely happy. The party was just beginning.