Five Minutes Between Floors and Forever

I step out of the elevator, Kevin's overeager hands already trying to find their way under my top. He's hot in that generic frat boy way—messy blonde hair, gym body, and a smile girls fall for before they figure out he's nothing special underneath.

"Come on," I whisper, guiding him away from my apartment door. "Not inside."

"What? Where are we going?" he says, confusion clouding his face.

I don't bother explaining. I don't want him in my space, seeing my things, thinking this is an invitation to anything more than what it is—something to pass the time on a Thursday night.

I push open the heavy door to the stairwell, the industrial lighting harsh against the gray concrete steps. It's utilitarian and anonymous. Perfect.

"Here?" Kevin looks around, his grin widening. "Kinda dirty. I like it."

I pull him to me, partly because I want to shut him up. His mouth covers mine, tongue pushing past my lips. He tastes like the two beers he had at the bar, but I don't care. This isn't about taste or connection.

"Someone could come in," he mumbles against my neck, the edge of fear in his voice only making his excitement more obvious against my thigh.

"That's the point," I say, pushing him against the wall.

I sink to my knees on the hard concrete, ignoring the bite of pain. His breathing quickens as I undo his jeans, tugging them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, already hard. I wrap my hand around him, feeling him pulse against my palm.

"Holy shit," he groans as I take him in my mouth.

I work him methodically, my movements practiced. I know exactly what to do to make this quick. I hollow my cheeks, sucking hard, letting my lips drag along his shaft.

"Fuck, you're good at this," Kevin pants, his fingers threading through my hair.

I pull back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Turn me around," I command.

He doesn't need to be told twice. Strong hands spin me to face the wall. I brace myself against the cold concrete as he yanks my skirt up around my waist.

"No panties?" he groans. "Jesus Christ."

His fingers find me wet and ready. I moan loudly—too loudly—as he slides two fingers inside me. The sound echoes off the bare walls, bouncing back at us amplified.

"You like that?" He pumps his fingers harder. "You like being fucked in a stairwell where anyone could see you?"

"Yes," I hiss, pushing back against his hand. "Just fuck me already."

I hear the crinkle of foil as he tears open a condom wrapper. A moment later, I feel the blunt pressure of his cock against me.

"Fuck me," I demand again.

He pushes into me with one hard thrust, and I cry out, the sound ricocheting through the empty space. He grabs my hips, fingers digging into my flesh as he starts to move. Each thrust shoves me against the wall, the rough surface scraping my palms.

"Yes, just like that," I moan, louder than necessary, putting on a performance that has become second nature. "Harder. Fuck me harder."

Kevin complies, his pace increasing, his breathing ragged in my ear. "You're so fucking hot," he grunts. "So tight."

I arch my back, giving him a better angle, and he hits something inside me that sends a genuine spark of pleasure up my spine. I moan again, this time for real.

"You like my cock inside you?" he pants. "Tell me how much you like it."

"I love your cock," I say automatically, the words empty but effective. He twitches inside me at the praise. "It feels so good."

The slap of skin against skin echoes in the stairwell, mingling with our heavy breathing and my exaggerated cries. I close my eyes, trying to find that spark of pleasure again.

That's when I hear it—the soft scuff of a shoe on concrete.

My eyes snap open. I look down through the gaps between the stairs and see him. Tom, frozen on the landing below us, looking up. Our eyes lock for one eternal second. His face is a mask of shock, his lips parted slightly. But there's something else in his expression too—something dark and hungry that makes my stomach drop.

Kevin, oblivious, continues pounding into me. "Yeah, take it," he grunts.

But I barely hear him. I'm transfixed by Tom's gaze. The judgment is there, of course—cold and cutting. But behind it burns something else entirely. Something that makes my skin flush hot with a shame that somehow feels delicious.

Time stretches like taffy before Tom finally turns away, retreating silently back up the stairs. No word. No sound. Just the sight of his broad back disappearing around the corner.

"I'm gonna cum," Kevin announces, his rhythm growing erratic.

But the electric thrill that had been building in me evaporates instantly. I feel hollow suddenly, aware of the cold concrete under my knees, the emptiness of Kevin's meaningless words, the performance I'm putting on for no one.

"Wait," I say, but Kevin is already there, grunting and shuddering behind me, his fingers digging painfully into my hips as he empties himself.

He pulls out and I quickly adjust my skirt, turning to face him. He's grinning like he's just conquered something.

"That was hot as fuck," he says, tucking himself away and zipping up. "We should definitely do that again."

I force a smile. "Yeah, maybe."

But all I can think about is Tom's face—that moment of shocked recognition, the burning intensity in his eyes. I've never cared about his judgment before. So why does it feel like he's seen straight through me? And why does the thought of him witnessing that moment burn in my belly like shame and arousal twisted together?

"So, your place or mine next time?" Kevin asks, slinging an arm around my shoulders.

I shrug him off. "I'll text you," I lie, already knowing I won't.

I need to be alone. I need to understand why, of all the men who've seen me naked, Tom's fully-clothed gaze is the one that's left me breathless and ashamed. Why his silent retreat feels more significant than Kevin's spent body against mine.

And why, despite the shame, I can't stop wondering what he's thinking about me right now.

I close my apartment door behind me, my back pressed against it as I exhale slowly. My legs feel unsteady, my body still humming with a strange energy that has nothing to do with Kevin's mediocre fucking.

Tom's face. His eyes. That's all I can see.

I kick off my heels and pad barefoot through my darkened apartment, not bothering with the lights. I strip as I go, leaving a trail of clothing from the door to my bedroom—my skirt by the couch, my top draped over a chair, my bra hanging from my bedroom doorknob.

In the bathroom, I turn the shower as hot as I can stand and step under the spray. I scrub Kevin off my skin, washing away the lingering scent of his cologne and the sticky residue of his body against mine. But I can't wash away the memory of Tom's eyes on me—that look of shock giving way to something darker, something hungry.

Why the fuck am I obsessing over this? Tom is everything I can't stand—judgmental, rigid, probably thinks women should be seen and not heard. The kind of guy who wants a virgin in the streets and a whore in the sheets.

And yet.

I turn off the water and wrap myself in a towel, avoiding my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. I don't want to see myself right now, don't want to face whatever's written on my face.

My bedroom is cool and dark, moonlight spilling through the windows I never bother to cover. I drop the towel and slide between my sheets naked, my skin still damp and warm from the shower.

I close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. Instead, the scene in the stairwell plays on repeat behind my eyelids. Kevin's hands on my hips fade into the background, unimportant. All I can see is Tom's face as he looked up and saw me.

The judgment in his eyes should make me angry. But instead, I feel a twisting heat in my belly, a tightness in my chest.

My hand slides down my stomach of its own accord, my fingers trailing over my skin. I imagine it's Tom watching me now, his cold eyes taking in every movement. The thought sends a jolt through me.

"Fuck," I whisper into the darkness.

My fingers find my clit, already swollen and sensitive. I'm soaking wet—wetter than I was with Kevin in the stairwell. The realization should disturb me, but I'm beyond caring as I start to circle my clit with slow, deliberate movements.

I spread my legs wider, imagining Tom watching me. In my fantasy, he doesn't retreat up the stairs. He stays, his eyes burning into me as Kevin fucks me from behind. But Kevin fades away, becoming nothing more than a faceless prop. It's Tom who matters—Tom who sees me, Tom whose judgment makes my pussy clench with need.

My fingers move faster now, my breathing growing ragged. I slip two fingers inside myself, feeling how wet I am, how ready. My thumb continues to work my clit as I fuck myself with my fingers, arching into my own touch.

"Yes," I hiss, the word escaping unbidden.

In my mind, Tom approaches me in that stairwell. His face is cold, his eyes burning. "Look at you," he says, his voice low and controlled. "Letting some random fuck you against a wall. Is that all you think you're worth?"

The imagined words send another flood of wetness between my legs. I add a third finger, stretching myself, feeling the delicious burn.

"You're disgusting," fantasy-Tom tells me, but his eyes betray him. They're dark with want, with a hunger that matches the ache building inside me.

"You want me anyway," I whisper to the empty room, answering my fantasy. "You want to fuck me even though you think I'm a slut."

My fingers pump harder, faster. My other hand moves to my breast, pinching my nipple hard enough to hurt. The pain blends with the pleasure, both sharpening to a keen edge.

In my mind, Tom grabs me roughly, spinning me to face him. "Is this what you want?" he growls, unzipping his pants and freeing his cock—thick and hard despite his disdain.

"Yes," I moan, both to my fantasy and to the empty room.

I'm close now, my body tightening, pleasure coiling at the base of my spine. My fingers are a blur against my clit, inside my pussy. I'm making obscene wet sounds in the quiet room, my hips lifting off the mattress as I chase my release.

Fantasy-Tom bends me over, shoving my face against the concrete wall. "This is all you're good for," he tells me as he drives his cock into me.

The image of Tom fucking me—using me—while still looking at me with that cold judgment is what finally sends me over the edge. My orgasm tears through me, violent and unexpected in its intensity. I cry out, my body convulsing around my fingers, waves of pleasure washing over me again and again.

When it finally subsides, I collapse back against my pillows, breathing hard, my body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. My fingers are still inside me, my pussy still pulsing with aftershocks.

"Holy shit," I whisper.

I've had plenty of orgasms before—with partners, by myself. But nothing like this. Nothing that felt like it was ripped from somewhere deep inside me, leaving me raw and exposed.

And all from thinking about Tom. Tom, with his disapproving eyes and his rigid morality. Tom, who probably thinks I'm nothing but a cheap slut.

Tom, who looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole even as he judged me.

I pull my fingers out slowly, feeling suddenly, strangely empty. I roll onto my side, curling into myself, confused by the lingering ache in my chest that has nothing to do with physical pleasure.

Why him? Why does his opinion matter when I've spent years not giving a shit what men think of me?

I close my eyes, exhaustion finally settling over me. But as sleep claims me, I can still see Tom's face, still feel his eyes on me. And I know, with a certainty that terrifies me, that this isn't over. Whatever this is—this thing between us—it's only just beginning.

I hadn't slept. Not well, anyway. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her—Ella—pressed against that cold concrete wall, her head thrown back, those exaggerated moans echoing through the stairwell. The sounds were fake, obviously performative, but her body... Christ. The curve of her waist, the swell of her ass, her skin flushed pink with arousal.

I'd stood there like an idiot, paralyzed, watching for what felt like hours but could only have been seconds. I should have turned away immediately. I should have announced my presence. I should have done anything other than stand there getting hard while watching my neighbor fuck some random guy in a public stairwell.

The memory of it coils in my gut, a mix of disgust and desire I can't reconcile. I've been avoiding her for two days, taking the elevator at odd hours, listening at my door before leaving my apartment.

It's laundry day, though, and I can't put it off any longer. I gather my clothes, methodically sorted—whites, colors, darks—and head down to the basement laundry room. It's early afternoon on a Wednesday; the place should be empty.

The machines hum quietly as I load the whites first. The routine is calming—measure the detergent, select the cycle, start the machine. I'm reaching for the bottle of detergent again when my phone buzzes in my pocket. The distraction is enough; my grip slips, and the bottle tumbles from my hands.

It hits the tile floor with a crack. The cap pops off, and blue liquid explodes outward, splattering across my jeans and t-shirt in an obscene Pollock painting.

"Fuck," I mutter, staring down at the mess. The detergent is everywhere—soaking through my shirt, seeping cold against my skin. It's already starting to itch.

I glance around quickly. The room is still empty. My apartment is five floors up, and there's no way I'm walking through the building covered in this shit. I strip off my shirt first, using a clean section to wipe my face where some of the detergent splashed up. The chemical smell is overpowering, and my skin is starting to burn.

I kick off my shoes and peel off my jeans, revealing plain black boxer briefs. The cool air of the laundry room raises goosebumps on my skin. I hold the soiled clothes at arm's length, debating whether to throw them in with the load I've already started or to rinse them in the utility sink first.

The door to the laundry room swings open.

I freeze, my muscles locking into place as if I've been caught in the act of something shameful. Standing in the doorway is a woman—short, curvy, with a mass of curly hair. I recognize her vaguely as one of Ella's friends. Hannah, I think her name is.

She stops dead, her eyes widening as she takes in the sight of me standing there in nothing but my underwear, holding my detergent-soaked clothes. Her gaze travels slowly from my face down to my chest, my stomach, lower, then back up again.

"Oh," she says, the word barely audible over the hum of the washing machine.

I can feel the heat rushing to my face, spreading down my neck and chest. My skin is probably turning the same shade as a boiled lobster. I can't speak, can't move, can't do anything but stand there exposed while she stares at me.

After what feels like an eternity, my body finally responds to the desperate commands from my brain. I snatch my wet clothes from the top of the dryer, clutching them against my chest despite the cold, soapy fabric.

"Excuse me," I mutter, the words strangled.

Hannah steps aside quickly, pressing herself against the wall to let me pass. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to look at her as I stride for the door, my bare feet slapping against the tile.

I don't stop moving until I'm safely inside the stairwell. I lean against the wall, breathing hard, my heart hammering in my chest. The same stairwell where I saw Ella. The concrete is cold against my bare back.

"Shit," I say to the empty space.

I know how this place works. Within ten minutes, Hannah will have told Ella about this. About me, standing nearly naked in the laundry room, my clothes a sopping mess, my face flushed with embarrassment.

I push off from the wall and start climbing the stairs, still clutching my wet clothes against my chest. Five floors up, the detergent is starting to dry, making my skin tight and itchy. I pray I don't run into anyone else on the way to my apartment.

I'm going to need to come back for my laundry. I'll have to face the building again. Face Ella, probably, with the knowledge that her friend saw me practically naked and undoubtedly reported back every detail.

The thought makes my stomach clench with a strange, sick anticipation. I wonder what Ella will think when she hears. If she'll picture me the way I've been picturing her. If she'll laugh at my embarrassment or if she'll feel something else entirely.

I don't know which possibility unsettles me more.

I was scrolling through Hannah's texts as I headed back to my apartment, smirking at the detailed description she'd sent of Tom's nearly naked body in the laundry room.

*His BODY, Ella. I swear to god. Like, carved from marble. And when he saw me? Turned RED. Everywhere.*

I snorted, typing back a quick response: *So the tight-ass has abs. Still doesn't make him less of a judgmental dick.*

But I couldn't deny the shiver that ran through me at the mental image. I'd glimpsed enough of Tom's broad shoulders and chest through his t-shirts to know Hannah wasn't exaggerating. The thought of him standing there in just boxer briefs, mortified and exposed—it did something to me I wasn't ready to examine.

I rounded the corner to my hallway, still staring at my phone, when I nearly collided with something solid. Looking up, I found myself face-to-face with Tom himself.

"Shit," I muttered, taking an instinctive step back. "Sorry."

He stood frozen, his keys dangling from his hand, caught in the act of unlocking his door. For a moment, we just stared at each other. I waited for his usual cold silence, the tight jaw, the disapproving glance that always made me want to scream.

But something was different. His eyes were focused on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. The air between us felt charged, dangerous.

I expected him to nod stiffly and disappear into his apartment. That's what he always did—treated me like I was radioactive, something to be avoided at all costs.

Instead, he turned to face me directly.

"The stairwell," he said, his voice low and steady.

My breath caught. So we were doing this. After days of silence.

I crossed my arms over my chest, armor against whatever judgment was coming. "What about it?"

His eyes never left mine. "When I saw you..." He paused, his jaw working like he was fighting with himself. "My reaction wasn't what I would have expected."

I waited, heart hammering against my ribs. Part of me wanted to fill the silence with something cutting, something to wound him before he could wound me. But the look in his eyes held me still.

"Seeing you like that..." His voice dropped even lower. "I got fucking hard."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Raw. Unfiltered. Not an accusation or a come-on—a confession ripped from somewhere deep and private.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. The hallway seemed to shrink around us, the air too thick to breathe. Heat bloomed in my chest, spreading outward until my fingertips tingled with it.

Before I could collect myself enough to respond, Tom turned away. In one fluid motion, he unlocked his door, stepped inside his apartment, and shut the door behind him.

I stood there, stunned, staring at the space where he had been. My pulse pounded in my ears. My skin felt too tight, too sensitive.

He'd seen me in the stairwell with Kevin. Watched me. And he'd gotten hard.

The man who looked at me like I was everything wrong with the world had just admitted to wanting me. Not despite his judgment—maybe even because of it.

The thought was dizzying. I pressed my palm against the wall to steady myself, struggling to catch my breath.

I barely made it into my apartment. My hands trembled so badly I had to try twice to fit the key in the lock. Once inside, I leaned against the closed door, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

"Seeing you like that... I got fucking hard."

His words played on repeat in my mind, each syllable striking like flint against steel, sending sparks through my body. It wasn't just what he'd said—it was how he'd said it. Like a confession torn from him against his will. Like something that had been eating him alive.

I pushed away from the door and moved through my darkened apartment on autopilot. My living room window faced the small central courtyard of The Marlowe Arms, and directly across—Tom's apartment. The blinds in his window were drawn, but warm light glowed around their edges.

I stood there, watching that light, feeling something unfamiliar taking shape inside me.

He'd seen me in that stairwell with Kevin. Seen me performing, putting on the show I always did. The empty, hollow routine that never fulfilled anything but my need to prove I didn't care. And Tom—proper, judgmental Tom—had gotten hard watching me.

That was the part that kept hitting me: he hadn't just wanted me; he'd wanted me despite himself. Despite everything he thought was right. His desire had violated his own moral code, and still, he couldn't help it.

In all my hookups, all my calculated displays of sexuality, I'd never felt what I was feeling now. This wasn't the fleeting satisfaction of turning a head or eliciting a crude comment. This was something deeper, more potent.

I pressed my palm against the cool glass of the window.

Tom had judged me. Had looked at me with those cold eyes, that tight jaw, keeping himself distant and superior. And all that time, he'd been fighting his own desire.

A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me—not my usual cynical snort, but something almost like wonder.

I wasn't just an object of his scorn or his lust. I was the cause of his inner conflict. The reason his carefully constructed walls were cracking.

My reflection stared back at me from the dark glass, eyes bright with a new understanding. The power I'd always chased—the kind that came from being wanted—had always felt so temporary, so conditional. But this was different. This wasn't about my body or what I was willing to do with it.

This was about me—Ella—being powerful enough to make someone like Tom question everything he thought he knew about himself.

I stepped back from the window, my heartbeat steadying into something strong and sure. For days, I'd been the one off-balance. Embarrassed at being caught in the stairwell. Ashamed when I'd thought about him watching. But now?

Now I understood. His judgment was just the surface layer, the shield protecting him from what he really felt. And underneath that shield was something raw and honest and hungry.

I moved to my bedroom, stripping off my clothes and catching my reflection in the full-length mirror. For once, I didn't assess myself through someone else's imagined gaze. Instead, I saw what Tom saw—not just curves and skin, but something that had gotten under his skin so deeply he couldn't keep it inside anymore.

I slipped between my sheets, but I knew sleep wouldn't come. Not with the weight of possibility pressing down on me. Not with the knowledge that across the courtyard, behind those drawn blinds, Tom was probably lying awake too—his certainties shaken, his control slipping.

Tomorrow, I'd go out with Hannah as planned. But after that... after that, something would have to give. This new tension between us couldn't hold. And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I wasn't afraid of what might happen next.

His weakness for me had become my strength. And I intended to use it.

The heels Hannah had insisted I wear were killing me as we cut through the courtyard. Four-inch stilettos weren't exactly practical for the cracked concrete pathway, but I'd wanted to look good tonight. Not for any of the forgettable men at the club – for myself. At least that's what I'd told Hannah.

"I still can't believe that guy bought us shots," Hannah was saying, her words slightly slurred. "He was totally into you."

I made a noncommittal sound. I hadn't even registered his face. Three days had passed since Tom's confession in the hallway, and I'd thought about little else.

As we approached the entrance, a flicker of movement caught my eye. I glanced toward Tom's first-floor apartment, where a sliver of light escaped through an imperfectly closed blind.

I stopped walking.

"What is it?" Hannah asked.

"Nothing," I said, but I didn't move.

Through that narrow gap, I could see into Tom's living room. He was sitting on his couch, bathed in the bluish glow of a laptop screen. Alone. But it was what he was doing that rooted me to the spot.

His head was tilted back slightly, eyes closed, one hand moving rhythmically beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

"Oh my god," Hannah whispered, following my gaze. "Is he—"

"Go inside," I said, my voice low and firm.

"But—"

"I need a minute. I'll see you tomorrow."

Hannah hesitated, then squeezed my arm. "Text me later," she said, before disappearing toward the entrance.

I stood perfectly still, watching. There was something mesmerizing about seeing him this way—the man who'd judged me, who'd maintained such rigid control, coming undone by his own hand. His movements grew more urgent, his breathing visibly heavier even from this distance.

When he finally came, his body tensed, then relaxed in a wave I could practically feel from where I stood. I couldn't look away.

Then, as if sensing he was being watched, his eyes drifted toward the window. Our gazes locked.

The horror that spread across his face would have been comical if it weren't so raw. He fumbled to close his laptop, to adjust his clothing, but the damage was done. I'd seen him at his most vulnerable, most private moment.

The power I'd felt after his confession multiplied tenfold. I pulled out my phone and typed quickly:

*Let me in.*

I watched him read the message, watched the conflict play across his features. Then he stood, straightening his clothes, and moved out of view.

Thirty seconds later, his door opened. Tom stood in the threshold, hair mussed, face flushed with a mixture of shame and lingering arousal. He wore just sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt—both hastily thrown on.

"I saw you," I said simply, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

He closed the door behind me, not meeting my eyes. "Ella, I—"

"Watching you touch yourself for me..." I moved closer, dropping my voice to a near-whisper. "I'm so fucking wet, Tom."

His eyes snapped to mine, darkening at my words.

"You didn't even try to deny it was for me," I continued, emboldened by his reaction. I reached for the hem of my tight black dress, slowly pulling it upward, revealing more thigh with each inch. "Do I make you hard, Tom? The way you've been making me wet for weeks?"

He swallowed hard but said nothing, his gaze now fixed on my gradually exposing skin.

"Are you going to fuck me like a real slut?" I challenged, using the word he'd probably thought about me since the day we met. "Do you know how wet you're making me?"

Still, he remained frozen, caught between desire and his own rigid self-control. I could see it all in his eyes—wanting me, hating himself for wanting me, wanting me even more because of it.

I let my dress fall to the floor, standing before him in just a black lace thong and matching bra. The cool air pebbled my skin, but I felt nothing but heat.

When he still didn't move, I crossed to him and sank slowly to my knees. His breath hitched as I tugged at his sweatpants, pulling them down just enough to free his already hard cock.

I looked up at him, maintaining eye contact as I took him into my mouth. The sound he made—part groan, part surrender—sent electricity through me. His taste was clean, slightly salty. I worked my tongue around the head of his cock, savoring the way his thighs trembled.

"Fuck," he whispered, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. One hand tentatively touched the side of my face, then wound into my hair.

I took him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, using my hand to work what wouldn't fit in my mouth. His control began to fray; his hips moved slightly, pushing into my mouth with gentle, restrained thrusts.

Just as I felt him growing harder, his grip in my hair tightened. He pulled me up, kissing me with a hunger that stole my breath. This wasn't the judgmental neighbor I'd known—this was something else entirely, something unleashed.

He walked me backward until my legs hit the couch, then laid me down, his larger body covering mine. His mouth moved from my lips to my neck, then lower, pushing my bra aside to take one nipple between his lips.

"Tell me what you want," he said, voice rough against my skin.

"I want you inside me," I gasped as his teeth grazed my sensitive flesh. "Now."

He reached between us, pushing my thong aside rather than removing it. His fingers found me, exploring my wetness, and I moaned at the contact.

"You weren't lying," he said, almost to himself. "You're soaked."

"For you," I admitted, the truth tumbling out before I could stop it. "Just for you."

Something in his expression shifted at my words. He positioned himself at my entrance, then pushed inside in one smooth motion. The sensation of being completely filled made me cry out.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, beginning to move. "Is this what you think about when you touch yourself?"

"Yes," I breathed, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He fucked me with measured, deliberate strokes, hitting places inside me that made my vision blur. For all his control, there was nothing mechanical about the way he moved. Each thrust was intentional, designed to draw more sounds from me, to build my pleasure alongside his own.

His hands weren't idle; they explored my body, learning what made me arch and moan. When he found my clit with his thumb, circling it in perfect time with his thrusts, I felt myself racing toward orgasm.

"I'm going to—" I couldn't finish the sentence.

"I know," he said, his voice tender in a way I hadn't expected. "Let me feel it."

The orgasm tore through me like a storm, stealing my breath and my thoughts. I clenched around him, wave after wave of pleasure radiating outward from where our bodies joined.

He slowed his pace, letting me ride out the aftershocks, watching my face with an intensity that should have made me uncomfortable but somehow didn't.

"Turn over," he said when my breathing steadied.

I complied, letting him guide me onto my hands and knees. He entered me again from behind, the new angle hitting even deeper. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me back to meet each thrust.

This position was rougher, more primal, but still, there was something else beneath the surface—a connection I'd never felt during sex before. He wasn't just using my body; he was present with me, attuned to every sound, every reaction.

"Ella," he groaned, his rhythm growing less controlled. "I can't—"

"It's okay," I urged, pushing back against him. "Come for me, Tom."

He did, his body tensing as he drove into me one final time, his release hot inside me. He collapsed forward, his chest pressed to my back, his breath warm against my neck.

For a long moment, we stayed like that, connected, breathing hard, neither of us willing to break the spell.

Finally, he eased out of me, and I felt suddenly empty. He disappeared briefly, returning with a warm, damp washcloth. The tenderness with which he cleaned between my legs made my chest ache with an unfamiliar feeling.

When he finished, he pulled me against him on the couch, my back to his chest, his arm draped over my waist. Neither of us spoke. There was too much to say, and no words adequate to say it.

Instead, I focused on the steady beat of his heart against my back, wondering how something that had started with judgment and provocation had led us here—to this quiet moment that felt more intimate than anything that had come before.

For days after that night on his couch, we'd existed in a strange limbo. We'd pass each other in the hallway, and the electricity between us was palpable—his eyes would linger on my lips, my gaze would drop to his hands, remembering how they'd felt on my skin. But neither of us made a move. It was as if we'd both been shaken by the intensity of what had happened, unsure of what it meant or where to go next.

I was returning late from a grocery run when it happened. The underground parking lot of the Marlowe Arms was always dimly lit, with several burnt-out fluorescents creating pools of shadow between the concrete pillars. I'd just pulled into my spot when headlights swept across my rearview mirror.

Tom's sleek black sedan slid into the space two cars down. My heart immediately kicked against my ribs.

I sat for a moment, considering my options. I could wait until he'd gone, avoiding another charged encounter. Or I could get out now and face whatever this strange energy between us had become.

Before I could decide, he was out of his car, gathering a gym bag from his backseat. The parking lot's harsh lighting carved shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look even more severe than usual.

I grabbed my grocery bags and stepped out. The sound of my car door closing echoed through the concrete space. His head turned, and our eyes locked.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then, as if pulled by an invisible force, we both began walking—not toward the elevator, but toward each other.

We met in the narrow space between our cars. No words were exchanged. None were needed. The grocery bags slipped from my fingers, hitting the concrete with a muffled thud as his mouth found mine.

This kiss was nothing like the ones we'd shared on his couch. Those had been exploratory, building toward something. This was desperate, hungry—as if we'd both been starving for days.

His hands gripped my waist, backing me against the cool metal of his car door. The contrast between the cold surface at my back and his heat pressed against my front sent a shiver through me.

"Here?" I gasped when his lips moved to my neck.

"Can't wait," he growled, his voice rough with need. "Been thinking about you for days."

Then his hands were under my dress, hitching it up around my waist. Anyone could walk into the parking garage. Anyone could turn the corner and see us. The risk of discovery only heightened every sensation.

His fingers found the edge of my underwear, pushing it aside rather than removing it. He stroked me once, twice, his touch knowing exactly how to make me respond.

"Already so wet," he murmured against my ear. "Is this for me?"

"Yes," I admitted, my voice barely audible over the sound of my pulse in my ears.

I heard the sound of his zipper, then felt the blunt pressure of his cock against my entrance. He lifted one of my legs, hooking it around his waist, opening me to him.

When he pushed inside me, I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. The position—standing, partially clothed, in a public space—made him feel impossibly deep.

"Fuck," he hissed, remaining still for a moment, his forehead pressed against mine. "You feel so good."

Then he began to move, driving into me with hard, fast strokes that left me breathless. One of his hands braced against the car window behind me; the other gripped my thigh, holding me open for him.

"Is this what you need?" he asked, his voice a ragged whisper. "My cock filling you up where anyone could see?"

The crude words from his usually controlled mouth sent a fresh wave of arousal through me. I clenched around him involuntarily.

"Yes," I gasped. "Don't stop."

His rhythm grew more urgent. The car rocked slightly with each thrust, the quiet sounds of our bodies meeting echoing in the empty parking garage. I was close already, wound tight from days of thinking about him, about us.

"Touch yourself," he commanded, his eyes dark and intense on mine. "I want to watch you come on my cock."

I slid a hand between us, finding my clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was overwhelming. I felt my orgasm building, a tightening coil of pleasure at my core.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice strained with his own approaching release. "Let go for me, Ella."

The sound of my name on his lips pushed me over the edge. I came with a shuddered gasp, my inner walls pulsing around him. He covered my mouth with his, swallowing my moans as I rode out the waves of pleasure.

As my orgasm subsided, Tom suddenly pulled out. Before I could protest the loss, he lifted me effortlessly, setting me on the hood of his car.

"Cold," I gasped as my bare skin met the metal.

"Won't be for long," he promised, positioning himself between my spread thighs.

He pushed back inside me in one smooth motion, filling me completely. This new angle allowed him to go even deeper. My head fell back as he established a relentless pace, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me to meet each thrust.

"Look at me," he ordered, and I lifted my head to meet his gaze. The intensity in his eyes made my breath catch.

There was something different about this time—something more raw, more honest. In the dim light of the parking garage, with my dress bunched around my waist and his pants only pushed down far enough to free his cock, we were stripped of all pretense.

"I can't get enough of you," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion as much as desire. "I think about being inside you all the time."

His confession pushed me toward a second orgasm, this one building slower but feeling somehow deeper than the first.

"I need to feel you come inside me," I told him, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist, pulling him closer. "Please, Tom."

The plea in my voice seemed to break the last of his control. His rhythm faltered, growing erratic as he chased his release. Then with a final, deep thrust, he stilled, his cock pulsing as he came inside me. The sensation of his warm cum filling me triggered my own orgasm, gentler than the first but no less intense.

For a moment, we stayed like that, connected, breathing hard, the only sound in the empty garage. Reality slowly filtered back—the cold of the car hood beneath me, the distant sound of traffic, the vulnerability of our position.

Tom eased out of me carefully, tucking himself back into his pants. I slid off the hood, adjusting my dress and underwear with shaking hands. Neither of us spoke as we collected ourselves. He picked up my fallen grocery bags. I smoothed my hair.

Without a word, we walked toward the elevator, maintaining a careful distance between us. The silence was no longer charged with unresolved desire—now it hummed with unspoken questions, with the weight of what we'd just shared.

When the elevator arrived, we stepped inside together. I pressed the button for the fourth floor. Tom pressed five. As the doors closed, enclosing us in the small space, I noticed he wasn't looking at me. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the floor display, his jaw tight with what looked like conflict.

I wondered if this was it—if we'd return to our separate apartments and pretend none of this had happened. The thought made my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for.

The elevator hummed as it ascended, carrying us from the darkness of the garage toward our separate lives—or so I thought.