Elevator Pause

I knew he couldn't see me. The camera in the corner had been dead for a while—we'd checked when we got stuck the first time, a month ago. Back then it was almost funny: both of us in business attire, me clutching a folder with a contract, him straightening his tie. But now I was standing two feet behind his back, leaning against the cold metal wall, listening to him talk on the phone.

"No, Len, I'm serious. She's... different. I don't even know how to explain it. You should see the way she looks at me. Like she knows what's going on in my head, and she likes it. We haven't even done anything yet, and I'm already coming in my head. Standing here in this stuck elevator," he chuckled. "And I'm thinking about her. She's somewhere in this same building right now, and I'd fuck her right here, against this mirror, without a second thought."

I bit my lip. My hand slid down my thigh on its own, under the hem of my dress. My panties were already soaked—had been since the second he started talking about me.

"Yeah. She's older than me, and that gets me going. She doesn't say much, but every sound she makes is like a kiss."

He didn't know I'd stepped in right behind him. That I'd heard him arguing with the dispatcher, then cursing under his breath when the lights flickered. I stayed quiet. I wanted to see what he'd do if he thought he was alone.

"Len, I'll call you back. I think we've got—" He turned around.

He saw me. Flinched. The phone slipped from his fingers and hit the floor, screen up. On the screen it read: "Call Active."

"Olya..." he breathed out.

"Keep going," I said softly. "I don't mind. Really."

He swallowed hard. Took a step toward me. The elevator suddenly felt too small—or was it just the air running out? I could smell him: coffee, tobacco, a hint of sweat. That warm, masculine smell. My pulse was pounding somewhere in my throat.

"You heard..."

"Everything. Every word."

He moved in close. I tilted my head back, looking into his eyes—dark, glossy, like wet stones. His fingers found my waist, slid up to the small of my back.

"So what now?" he whispered.

"Now—you shut up."

I reached for his lips myself. The kiss was hungry, tasting of cherry gum—he always chewed it when he was nervous. I bit his lower lip, and he groaned into my mouth. His hands gripped my ass, pulling me against him.

"Olya..." he broke away for a second. "Are you sure? We could just—"

"We can't," I cut him off. "You heard what you said, right? So do it."

He laughed—low and rough. Spun me around to face the mirror. I saw myself: flushed, lips swollen, dress hiked up, and he was already tugging my panties down over my hips.

"Look at us," he whispered against my ear, his voice shaking. "Watch me fuck you."

I braced my hands against the cold glass. His palm ran down my back, unzipping my dress. The fabric slipped off my shoulders, leaving me in just lace. His fingers traced down my spine, over my ass, squeezing.

"God, you're..." He didn't finish.

He dropped to his knees behind me. I felt his breath on the inside of my thigh, and my knees nearly buckled. He kissed my skin—slow, tormenting, from knee to thigh. I gripped the handrail so hard my knuckles went white.

"Don't tease," I breathed.

He didn't listen. His tongue dragged through my wet slit—slow, hot. I bit my lip to keep from screaming. The mirror was fogging from my breath. His hands spread my ass cheeks, and his tongue pushed deeper.

"Yeah..." I moaned.

He stood up, pressing his whole body against mine. I felt his cock—hard, digging into my lower back. He spun me around to face him, hooked his hands under my thighs. I wrapped my legs around his waist. He sank into me in one stroke—deep, all the way to the hilt.

I cried out. The elevator lurched, the lights flickered.

"Don't worry," he whispered. "I've got you."

He moved slow, rhythmic. I dug my nails into his shoulders, feeling the muscles roll beneath his shirt. Every thrust sent a tremor through me. I scratched his back, and he growled, picking up the pace.

"You..." he gasped, "you drive me insane..."

"Fuck me," I whispered. "Don't stop."

He spun me back to the mirror. I could see us—his hands on my hips, my back arched, my hair a mess. His cock sliding in and out of me, over and over, and I could feel the heat building low in my belly.

"Look at yourself," he breathed. "God, you're beautiful when you come..."

He slipped his hand between my legs, found my clit. I gasped when his fingers started moving in time with his thrusts. Everything inside me tightened.

"I'm..." I started.

"I know," he cut me off. "Come. I'm right there with you."

The orgasm hit me like a wave. I screamed, arching back, clawing at the mirror. He drove deeper, coming with me, and I felt his pulse throbbing inside me.

We both froze. The elevator jerked and started moving down. The floor indicator blinked.

"We..." he started.

"Yeah," I cut him off, smoothing down my dress. "We should probably call the dispatcher."

He bent down, picked up his phone. The screen still showed: "Call Active — 14:32."

"Shit," he breathed.

"¿Qué?"

He showed me the screen. At the very top was a notification: "Call Recording Enabled."

I smiled. He smiled back. The elevator stopped, the doors slid open.

"Round two?" he asked.

I took his hand and pulled him toward my apartment.