The elevator hums. The city sprawls below, a carpet of lights. You’ve closed a deal, shaken hands, played the part. Now you need something that has nothing to do with business.
She’s already in your penthouse. The concierge let her up. She’s standing by the window, back to you, wearing a silk robe that ends mid‑thigh. The city reflects off the glass, but all you see is the curve of her waist.
She turns. The robe falls. She’s naked underneath, except for a single key on a chain around her neck.
“I locked the door,” she says. “You’re not leaving until I say so.”
She doesn’t walk toward you. She walks to the bed, lies down, and crooks a finger. You obey. She pulls you on top of her, but then she flips you hard and straddles your face first.
“Taste me,” she says. “If you’re good, I’ll let you inside.”
She’s wet, sweet, and she grinds against your mouth until her thighs shake. When she comes, she doesn’t get quiet. She laughs a loud, wicked laugh, then crawls down your body and takes you in her mouth.
Her tongue is slow, then fast, then slow again. She edges you until you’re gripping the sheets. Then she climbs on top, lowers herself onto you, and rides you like she’s angry at the city.
The headboard hits the glass. The lights blur. She comes again, and this time she lets you follow. You explode inside her while she clenches and unclenches, her nails in your chest.
She collapses beside you, breathing hard.
“The key around my neck?” she says. “It’s to my apartment. You’ll need it next time.”
Express Elevator – 30 minutes. Fast, dirty, and over before the ice melts.
Revolving Door – A few hours. Drinks, teasing, and a slow, devastating finish.
Penthouse Lock‑In – She stays all night. Wakes you with her mouth. You’ll call in late.
The elevator is going up. So is your heartbeat.
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