Between Floors: The Gravity of Forbidden Desire

The basement laundry room smells like fabric softener and dust. Sunlight slants through the small ground-level window, warming the backs of my hands as I fold my clothes. Saturday mornings down here are my routine—the only time the machines aren't claimed by college students doing months of laundry at once.

I smooth the wrinkles from a silk blouse, taking care with the delicate fabric. My mother always said you can tell a person's character by how they maintain their clothes. Mine are immaculate.

The door opens, and Grace from 2B walks in with her basket. She's pretty in that effortless way of young women—messy ponytail, yoga pants, and still looking better than I would with an hour of preparation.

"Morning," she says, her voice bright with youth.

"Good morning." I keep my tone measured, polite but distant.

We work in companionable silence. I've nearly finished when movement outside the window catches my eye. Someone on the small tenant patio. It takes me a moment to recognize him—4C, the stairwell boy—but without his usual hoodie. He's jogging in place, checking what must be a fitness watch on his wrist.

I should look away. Instead, I find myself pausing, a half-folded towel in my hands.

He pulls off his sweat-soaked shirt in one fluid motion, revealing tanned skin stretched over lean muscle. His back is to us, the dip of his spine catching the light. I should definitely look away now.

But I don't.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and pushes them down in one quick movement. Then his underwear follows.

My lungs forget how to function.

He stands completely naked, his body angled mostly away, unaware of our window. The curve of his backside, the powerful lines of his thighs, the surprising breadth of his shoulders compared to his narrow waist—all of it etched into my vision in seconds that stretch like hours.

A tiny, strangled sound escapes from beside me. Grace. I'd forgotten she was there. Her eyes are wide, a flush spreading across her cheeks. Our gazes meet in silent, shocked complicity.

Outside, he bends over a gym bag—giving us an unobstructed view that makes Grace press her fingers to her lips—and pulls out fresh clothes. In a matter of seconds, he's dressed again, gathering his things, completely oblivious to what just happened.

He walks away, his bag slung over his shoulder, the moment over as suddenly as it began.

I realize I'm still clutching the towel, my knuckles white. I force myself to breathe, to release my grip, to resume folding as though nothing has happened.

"Well," Grace finally says, her voice slightly higher than normal. "That was... unexpected."

"Completely inappropriate," I reply automatically, though my heart is racing. "He should know better than to do that in a common area."

Grace gives me a look that's half-amusement, half-conspiracy. "I don't think he knew anyone could see."

"Still." I snap a pillowcase with more force than necessary, trying to dismiss the image burned into my mind. But it's there—the smooth planes of his back, the dimples just above his buttocks, the casual confidence of his nakedness.

I finish folding my laundry with mechanical precision, but inside, something has come undone.

I stare at the ceiling, watching shadows dance across the textured plaster. Ten o'clock. Eleven. Midnight. Sleep refuses to come.

My bedroom is as meticulous as the rest of my apartment—Egyptian cotton sheets perfectly tucked, decorative pillows arranged by size, not a speck of dust on the nightstand. Everything in its place. Controlled. Unlike the thoughts swirling in my head.

I roll over, punching my pillow. This is ridiculous. I'm forty-two years old, not some hormonal teenager. Yet every time I close my eyes, I see him.

The boy from 4C. Nathan.

The smooth expanse of his back. The tight curve of his ass. The casual confidence of his nudity. I've seen naked men before—I'm hardly a prude despite what my ex-husband might say. But there was something about the stolen nature of that glimpse. Something forbidden in watching someone who didn't know they were being watched.

Someone nearly half my age.

I exhale sharply and flip onto my back again. My nightgown feels suddenly restrictive, the silk clinging to my skin. I'm warm. Too warm.

"Stop it," I whisper to myself in the darkness. "Just stop."

But the image persists, growing more detailed with each passing minute. The way the sunlight caught the ridges of muscle on his lower back. The shadow between his legs as he bent over. How would he look facing me? What would his cock look like, hanging between those strong thighs or—Jesus, what's wrong with me—hard and ready?

My hand moves without conscious permission, sliding across my stomach. I should stop. This is inappropriate. Embarrassing.

I don't stop.

My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my underwear, finding the evidence of my arousal already there. I'm wet. Shamefully, undeniably wet.

"Fuck," I breathe, the curse unfamiliar on my tongue.

I circle my clit slowly, testing my response. A jolt of pleasure shoots through me, so sharp it's almost painful. It's been months since I've touched myself, longer since anyone else has. My body responds with embarrassing eagerness.

I close my eyes and surrender to the fantasy. In my mind, he's turning toward the window, seeing me watching him. His eyes darken with recognition, then interest. He doesn't cover himself. Instead, he lets me look, his cock thickening under my gaze.

My fingers move faster, my hips rising to meet them. In this version, he walks toward the building, toward me, his intention clear. He enters the laundry room, and without a word, pushes me against the washing machine. His hands—younger, stronger than mine—tear at my clothes.

"You like what you see?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

I whimper, both in my fantasy and here in my bed. My other hand moves to my breast, pinching my nipple through the thin silk.

In my mind, he's rough, impatient. He bends me over the machine, spreading my legs with his knee. "You've been watching me," he accuses, his fingers finding me wet and ready. "Dirty girl."

The words, even imagined, send a shock of heat between my legs. I'm close already, my fingers circling and pressing in the way I know works. But tonight I need more. I slide two fingers inside myself, gasping at the sensation.

In my fantasy, it's his cock pushing into me, thick and insistent. I imagine his hands gripping my hips, his breath hot on my neck as he fucks me hard against the cold metal of the machine. The contrast of his youth against my experience, his raw hunger against my careful restraint—it's intoxicating.

My back arches off the bed as the tension builds. I'm panting now, past caring how I might look or sound. My fingers pump faster, my thumb pressing hard against my clit. In my mind, he's calling me names that would make me slap him in reality—filthy things that now only drive me higher.

"Come for me," fantasy-Nathan demands, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Let me feel your pussy squeeze my cock."

The orgasm hits without warning, violent and overwhelming. I cry out, my body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through me. My toes curl, my free hand clutching desperately at the sheets. It goes on and on, aftershocks rippling through me as I slowly float back to reality.

As the haze clears, shame floods in to replace the pleasure. I pull my hand from between my legs, wiping my fingers on the sheet in disgust. What am I doing, fantasizing about a boy who can't be more than twenty? Who lives in my building? Who I'll have to face in the hallway, knowing what I've imagined?

I roll onto my side, curling into myself. The satisfaction is already fading, leaving behind a hollow ache and a new, unsettling hunger. Sleep will come now, but I know with absolute certainty that this won't be the last time Nathan from 4C visits my bed.

Tomorrow I'll call James. Safe, predictable, age-appropriate James. I'll suggest dinner, maybe a movie. I'll remind myself what normal desire feels like.

But right now, in the dark, I can admit the truth: Nothing has made me feel this alive in years.

James is exactly what I need tonight. Safe. Predictable. Appropriately gray at the temples. The restaurant he chose has white tablecloths and wine that costs more than it should. His conversation is polite and carefully curated. He mentions his ex-wife exactly once, his Princeton education twice.

"Would you like to come up?" I ask when he parks his Audi in the visitor lot of my building.

He looks surprised. We've been on three dates, and I've never invited him past the lobby.

"Of course."

But I don't move to open my door. Instead, I place my hand on his thigh, feeling the expensive wool of his slacks. His eyes widen slightly.

"Actually," I say, my voice lower than usual, "we could stay here for a bit."

I've never done this before. Car sex is for teenagers, for people with no self-control or proper bedrooms. But the heat that's been building inside me all week demands release, and James is here, and safe, and won't mean anything tomorrow.

He smiles, confused but pleased. "Here? Now?"

I answer by leaning across the center console and kissing him. His lips are soft, his technique adequate. He tastes like the mint he popped after dinner. I deepen the kiss, surprising both of us with my aggression.

My hand slides higher on his thigh until I'm cupping the growing bulge in his pants. He groans into my mouth, his hand moving to my breast. The touch feels distant, clinical almost, but I need this. Need to purge the forbidden thoughts of Nathan that have consumed me.

"Evelyn," James breathes as I unzip his pants. "This isn't like you."

He has no idea what I'm like. Neither do I, anymore.

I don't answer. Instead, I bend over the console, grateful that James keeps his car immaculate. My hand slips into his pants, finding him half-hard already. I wrap my fingers around his cock, feeling it stiffen further at my touch. It's been years since I've done this—touched a man with hungry intent rather than dutiful obligation.

James leans his head back against the headrest, his breathing quickening as I stroke him. He's average in every way—length, girth, the way he moans. There's comfort in that predictability.

"You don't have to—" he starts as I lower my head.

"I want to," I say, surprising myself with the truth of it. I do want this—want to feel like the kind of woman who gives head in a parked car, want to be someone other than controlled, restrained Evelyn Peters who has color-coded her spice rack.

I take him into my mouth, tasting the salt-musk of his skin. His hand tentatively touches my hair, careful not to mess it up. Even now, he's being considerate. I wish he would grab it, pull it, show some sign of the animal hunger that's been clawing at me all week.

I hollow my cheeks, taking him deeper, remembering the mechanics if not the enthusiasm. James makes appreciative noises, his hips shifting slightly beneath me. I close my eyes, focusing on the physical sensations—the weight of his cock on my tongue, the stretch of my lips, the slight ache in my neck from the awkward angle.

"God, Evelyn," he groans. "Your mouth feels amazing."

I increase my pace, using my hand to work what my mouth can't reach. James is fully hard now, his cock throbbing against my tongue. I can tell he's close already—his breathing has changed, become more ragged. Part of me is disappointed at his lack of stamina, but mostly I'm relieved. I want this to be over so I can go upstairs and be alone with my thoughts again.

Suddenly, the car is flooded with light, harsh and bright. Headlights. Someone has pulled into the spot next to us.

I freeze, James's cock still in my mouth. A rush of panic seizes me—we're in a well-lit parking lot, for Christ's sake. What was I thinking?

"Shit," James hisses, his hand moving to cover his exposed groin as I jerk upright.

But the headlights don't immediately switch off. They're aimed directly at us, illuminating the interior of the car like a stage. My lips feel swollen, my hair disheveled. There's no question what we were doing.

I turn slowly toward the light, squinting. Through the glare, I can make out the silhouette of the driver.

My stomach drops.

It's him. Nathan. His face is cast in sharp shadow by the headlights, but I'd recognize those broad shoulders anywhere. He's just sitting there, engine still running, staring directly at us.

At me.

Our eyes lock through the two panes of glass. His expression is completely unreadable, his face a mask. But his gaze is unwavering, pinning me in place like an insect to a board.

One second passes. Two. Three.

Then, without any change in expression, he cuts the engine. The sudden darkness is almost as shocking as the light was. I hear his car door open and close. Footsteps on asphalt. He walks past our car without a glance, heading toward the building entrance.

I'm left trembling in the passenger seat, my body on fire with the most confusing mix of emotions I've ever experienced. Humiliation burns through me, hot and acidic. I was caught performing oral sex in a car like some desperate teenager. By him, of all people.

But underneath that shame is something else—something dark and perverse and thrilling. He saw me. Watched me. His eyes on my mouth, on what I was doing. The thought sends an unexpected pulse of heat between my legs.

"Well, that was awkward," James laughs nervously, tucking himself back into his pants. "Should we head up now?"

I can barely look at him. "I'm sorry, James. I'm not feeling well suddenly. Rain check?"

His disappointment is obvious, but he's too polite to push. "Of course. Are you going to be okay?"

"Fine," I say automatically. "Just a headache. Long day."

The lie comes easily, but the truth is far more complicated. As James walks me to the building entrance, all I can think about is Nathan's eyes on me, the silent judgment—or was it interest?—in that unblinking stare. And the undeniable fact that despite my mortification, I've never been more aroused in my life.

"Good night," I say to James at the door, offering my cheek for a kiss. I need to get away from him, need to process what just happened.

Need to be alone with the shameful, exhilarating knowledge that for the first time in my life, I was seen—really seen—in a moment of raw, unfiltered desire.

And by the one person who should never have witnessed it.

I almost run to the elevator, my heart still hammering in my chest. The lobby is mercifully empty—no witnesses to my flushed cheeks or the slight tremor in my hands as I jab the button repeatedly, willing the doors to open faster.

When they finally do, I step inside, exhaling a shaky breath. I need to get to my apartment, lock the door, and process what just happened. The weight of Nathan's gaze still burns on my skin.

I press the button for the fourth floor, watching the doors begin to close. Just as they're about to meet, a hand shoots between them. The sensors trigger, and the doors slide back open.

My stomach drops as Nathan steps inside.

He doesn't look at me, doesn't acknowledge my presence in any way. He simply presses the button for the fifth floor and moves to the opposite corner of the elevator, as far from me as the small space allows.

I stare straight ahead at the brushed metal doors, studying my warped reflection. My cheeks are flushed, my lipstick slightly smudged. I look exactly like what I am—a woman who was just caught performing a sex act in a car.

The silence between us is suffocating. I can hear his breathing, slightly faster than normal. Can he hear mine?

The elevator begins its ascent, the familiar hum filling the space between us. Three... four...

And then, nothing makes sense.

The elevator groans, a deep mechanical sound that vibrates through the floor. The car lurches violently, throwing me against the wall. I grab the railing to steady myself as the elevator grinds to a complete stop.

For one breathless moment, there's perfect stillness. Then the main lights flicker once, twice, and die entirely.

A second later, the emergency lighting kicks in—a single bulb casting everything in a dim, eerie orange glow. The sudden darkness makes the elevator feel smaller, more intimate.

"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, more to myself than to Nathan.

I reach for my phone, the screen lighting up my corner of the elevator. No signal. Of course.

Across from me, Nathan checks his own phone, the blue light illuminating his face for a moment before he pockets it again with a frustrated sigh.

"No service," he says flatly. The first words he's spoken to me directly.

I nod, not trusting my voice. I reach for the emergency call button, pressing it firmly. Nothing happens. No ring, no response.

"Probably connected to the same system as the lights," Nathan observes.

"Great," I say, my voice tight. "Someone will notice eventually."

"Eventually," he echoes.

We lapse back into silence. I'm acutely aware of him—his height, his presence, the memory of his eyes on me in that car. The small space seems to shrink further, the air between us growing thick and charged.

Minutes crawl by. Five, ten, fifteen. The silence stretches between us, punctuated only by our breathing and the occasional shift of weight. The emergency light casts strange shadows, turning Nathan into a collection of angles and planes rather than a whole person.

It's too much—the night, the embarrassment, the claustrophobia, his unnerving presence. Something inside me cracks.

"This is..." I begin, my voice barely above a whisper, my eyes fixed on the floor. "This is insane. I don't understand... why this is making me so... hot."

The words hang in the air, impossible to take back. I've never been so honest, so vulnerable with a stranger. I don't dare look up.

Nathan has gone completely still. For a long moment, he says nothing, and I'm certain I've made a catastrophic error in judgment.

Then I hear him exhale slowly.

"Me too," he admits, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. The hard edges are gone, leaving something raw and unguarded. "I saw you... before. In the car. I can't stop thinking about it."

I lift my head slowly, meeting his gaze in the dim orange light. His eyes are dark, intent, filled with the same confused hunger I feel devouring me from the inside.

The orange glow bathes everything in unreality. This isn't happening. Can't be happening. The polite, respectable woman I've spent decades becoming would never be trapped in an elevator with a younger man, confessing forbidden desires.

But as I search for that woman inside me, I find only a hollow space where she used to be. In her place is something primal and hungry, something that wants with a ferocity that terrifies me.

Nathan takes a half step toward me, then stops, uncertain. The air between us is electric, charged with possibility and danger.

My logical mind has disappeared completely. There is only this moment, this insane attraction, this bewildering, overwhelming need. I feel myself trembling with it, unable to look away from his face, unable to take the step that would bring us together.

We stand frozen at opposite ends of the elevator, neither advancing nor retreating, suspended in the amber light and the thick, impossible tension that fills the space between us.

The hour that follows is excruciating. We retreat to opposite corners again, both pretending our confessions never happened. The silence has become a third presence in the elevator, alive and demanding. I lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes. The orange emergency light seeps through my eyelids, turning my darkness red.

I know I should be planning what to say to building management, or worrying about work tomorrow, or doing anything other than feeling the steady pulse between my legs, the wetness that hasn't subsided since his admission.

Time stretches like taffy. Without warning, my body becomes hyper-alert to a new sound.

A soft, rhythmic rustling. Denim against skin.

I open my eyes slowly, careful not to move my head. Nathan stands in his corner, angled slightly away from me. His right arm is moving in a steady, unmistakable motion. Even in the dim light, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the slight forward tilt of his hips.

He's masturbating. Right here. Feet away from me.

My breath catches in my throat. He thinks I can't see him, that the darkness hides him. The knowledge hits me like a lightning strike – he's so turned on by our situation that he can't stop himself.

My hand moves of its own accord, sliding down my stomach, pressing against the ache between my thighs. The pressure makes me dizzy with relief. I start rubbing myself through my clothes, slow circles that make my hips want to lift.

A small, strangled sound escapes me before I can swallow it back.

Nathan goes completely still. Then he turns, his eyes finding mine in the darkness.

We stare at each other, caught, exposed. My hand frozen between my legs, his still gripping his cock through his jeans.

"I can hear you," I whisper, my voice strange and unsteady. "It's driving me crazy."

Something in his face changes. The last traces of hesitation vanish.

"Please," I say, the word emerging small and desperate, "fuck me."

He crosses to me in two strides. His hands find my wrists, pinning them against the cold metal wall above my head. His body presses against mine, hard and unyielding. I can feel his erection straining against his jeans, pressing into my stomach.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard," he growls against my ear, his breath hot on my skin.

His mouth crashes into mine, hungry and demanding. His tongue pushes past my lips, claiming me completely. I moan into his mouth, arching against him.

One hand keeps my wrists pinned while the other grips my thigh, shoving my skirt up around my waist. He tears at my underwear – expensive silk that rips like tissue paper in his grip. Cool air touches my exposed pussy for only a second before his fingers find me.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, sliding two fingers through my folds. "Is this all for me?"

"Yes," I gasp as he pushes those fingers inside me, stretching me open. My hips buck against his hand. "Oh god, yes."

He works his fingers deeper, his thumb finding my clit. I'm so sensitive that the first circle of his thumb makes me cry out, my inner walls clenching around his fingers.

"You like that?" he asks, his voice rough with need.

"Yes. Please, I need..." I can't finish, can barely think through the pleasure building inside me.

He withdraws his fingers, and I whimper at the loss. I hear the rasp of his zipper, and then he's lifting me, his hands gripping my ass, pushing me higher against the wall.

"Wrap your legs around me," he commands.

I do, locking my ankles behind his back. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, thick and hot. He pauses for one heartbeat, his eyes meeting mine.

Then he thrusts into me in a single, powerful stroke.

I cry out, my head falling back against the wall. He's bigger than I expected, stretching me almost to the point of pain. The sensation is overwhelming, perfect.

"Fuck, you're tight," he growls, his face buried in my neck. "So fucking tight around my cock."

He begins to move, pulling out almost completely before driving back into me. Each thrust pushes me higher against the wall, the metal cold against my back through my thin blouse. The contrast between that cold and the burning heat where our bodies join is exquisite.

I cling to him, my nails digging into his shoulders. One of his hands tangles in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat. His mouth latches onto my pulse point, sucking and biting. I know he'll leave marks. I want him to.

"Harder," I beg, not recognizing my own voice. "Fuck me harder."

He obeys, increasing his pace, his hips slamming against mine. The sound of skin against skin fills the elevator, punctuated by our harsh breathing and broken moans.

My orgasm builds with shocking speed, coiling tight at the base of my spine. "I'm close," I gasp. "Oh god, I'm so close."

"Come on my cock," he demands, his voice strained. "Let me feel you come."

His thumb finds my clit again, pressing hard circles in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation sends me hurtling over the edge. My orgasm tears through me like a storm, my pussy clenching violently around his cock as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through my body.

He continues thrusting through my orgasm, prolonging it until I'm shaking and incoherent. Then his rhythm falters, his grip on my hips bruising as he drives into me one final time.

"I'm coming," he groans, his cock pulsing inside me, filling me with hot spurts of cum.

We stay locked together against the wall, panting, our bodies slick with sweat. His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.

Slowly, he lowers me back to the ground, my legs trembling as my feet touch the floor. His cock slips from me, followed by a warm trickle down my inner thigh.

Reality begins to seep back in around the edges of my consciousness. I just had sex—raw, animal sex—with my much younger neighbor in a broken elevator. I should feel ashamed, horrified by my behavior.

Instead, as Nathan takes a step back, his eyes never leaving mine, all I feel is a deep, primal satisfaction... and the stirring of hunger for more.

Time is meaningless in our small metal box. I don't know how long we've been sitting here in silence, our backs against opposite walls, just existing in the aftermath of what we've done. My body feels different—sore in places I'd forgotten could feel anything at all, alive in ways that make me wonder if I've been half-dead for years.

Nathan sits with one knee up, his arm draped over it casually, as if we didn't just fuck against the elevator wall with a desperation that shocked even me. His eyes are on me, though, unblinking in the orange glow. I can't read his expression.

"I've never done anything like that before," I say finally, my voice small in the quiet space.

"Like what? Sex in an elevator?" One corner of his mouth lifts. "Or sex with someone like me?"

I hesitate. "Both."

The silence stretches between us again, but it's different now—less tense, more expectant. I'm acutely aware of the dampness between my thighs, of his cum still sticky on my skin. I should feel disgusted, or at least embarrassed. Instead, I feel marked in some fundamental way that satisfies a primal part of me I never acknowledged.

Nathan shifts, and then he's crawling toward me across the carpeted floor. My breath catches. He moves with the fluid grace of youth, his eyes never leaving mine. When he reaches me, he doesn't speak—just leans in and kisses me.

This kiss is nothing like before. It's slow, deliberate, his lips soft against mine. His hand cups my face, and I melt into him, opening my mouth to his exploring tongue.

"Lie down," he whispers against my lips.

I obey without question, stretching out on the thin carpet. Nathan hovers over me, his weight supported on his arms. He kisses me again, then trails his mouth down my neck, lingering at the hollow of my throat.

"I want to taste you," he says, his voice low and rough. "All of you."

The words send a new rush of wetness between my legs. I nod, not trusting my voice.

He sits up enough to push my skirt up again, bunching it around my waist. My underwear is long gone, torn in our earlier frenzy. He looks down at my exposed pussy, his gaze hungry.

"You're beautiful here," he says, running one finger through my folds, collecting the wetness there—a mixture of his cum and my arousal. "So fucking pretty and pink."

I should be mortified at being examined so intimately in this harsh orange light, but instead I feel myself opening to him, my thighs falling wider apart in invitation.

Nathan settles between my legs, his breath warm against my inner thighs. He starts there, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin, working his way higher with excruciating slowness. By the time his mouth hovers just above where I need him most, I'm trembling.

"Please," I whisper.

His eyes flick up to mine, and then he lowers his head. The first touch of his tongue against my clit makes my back arch off the floor. He makes a satisfied sound against me, like I'm something delicious he's been craving.

"You taste so good," he murmurs, the vibration of his words sending new shocks of pleasure through me. "Sweet and salty. I could eat your pussy for hours."

No one has ever talked to me like this, and certainly not while actually doing it. The dirty words from his mouth combined with the skillful movements of his tongue are intoxicating. I reach down and tangle my fingers in his hair, holding him against me.

He explores me with his tongue, learning what makes me gasp and what makes me moan. He circles my clit with the tip of his tongue, then flattens it to give broad, firm strokes that make my thighs shake. When he pushes his tongue inside me, I cry out, the sound echoing in our enclosed space.

"That's it," he says, replacing his tongue with two fingers that slide easily into my wetness. "Let me hear you. I want to know how good I'm making you feel."

He curls his fingers inside me, finding that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids, while his tongue returns to my clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming, and I hear myself making sounds I've never made before—high, desperate whimpers that build into shameless moans.

"Oh god," I gasp as he sucks my clit between his lips. "Right there. Please don't stop."

He doesn't. He keeps the same relentless rhythm, his fingers working in and out of me while his tongue dances over my clit. My hips begin to move of their own accord, grinding against his face as the pressure builds inside me.

"I'm going to come," I warn him, clutching at his hair.

He looks up at me then, his chin wet with my juices, his eyes dark with desire. "Good," he says. "Come on my tongue, Evelyn. I want to drink you up."

That does it. Hearing my name from his lips while he's between my legs sends me crashing into orgasm. My back arches as waves of pleasure roll through me, each one stronger than the last. My pussy clenches around his fingers as my clit pulses under his tongue.

Nathan doesn't let up, drawing out my climax until I'm sobbing his name, pushing weakly at his head because it's too much, too intense. Only then does he ease away, pressing one last gentle kiss to my throbbing clit that makes me jerk with oversensitivity.

He moves up my body and gathers me against him, holding me while the aftershocks ripple through me. I can smell myself on his face, and when he kisses me, I taste my own tangy sweetness on his tongue.

We lie like that for a long time, my head on his chest, his fingers drawing lazy patterns on my back. We don't speak. We don't need to. In this suspended moment, trapped between floors and outside of real life, our bodies have said everything necessary.

I feel his heart beating under my cheek, strong and steady. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I am exactly where I want to be.