Elevated

She was already leaning into me when the elevator doors slid shut. Perfume. Heat. Her hand sliding past my belt, fingers quick and sure. I hit Stop. The floor shuddered. No chime, no protest. Just the two of us boxed in and humming under the lights. She tasted mint and lipstick when I kissed her. Her back met the mirrored wall and the sound of her breath bounced back around us. Stockings rasped against my knuckles as I shoved her skirt higher, bunching it at her hips like gift wrap. No panties. Wet already. I slipped two fingers inside and felt her tighten around them, hungry and grateful. She freed my cock with one hand and guided it between her thighs, impatience written in the press of her nails on my shoulders. The first thrust lifted her heels clear of the floor. I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, rode her deep with the other braced on the rail. Each wet slap echoed off the metal. She came fast, thighs quaking around my waist, mouth open against my throat. I didn’t stop. Found her clit with my thumb and kept working her, made her twitch and gasp. When she begged, it was only for more. I finished inside her, hot and sudden, grinding in until every last pulse drained. We stayed pressed together a moment longer while the elevator kept its patient quiet. Then the light on the panel flickered back to life. I hit the button again. Descent resumed. She smoothed her skirt, licked the corner of her mouth, and smiled like the whole city waited below.