Twenty Floors Up

The office was plunged into near darkness, save for the weak green emergency strips and the glow from her laptop. Rain lashed against the huge windows, a relentless drumming sound. Ten pm. The power failure alarm had buzzed, then silence.

Lockdown.

She shivered, rubbing her arms. It wasn't just the sudden chill with the main systems off; it was the isolation, the unexpected intimacy of being trapped twenty floors up with him. Mark.

The guy from marketing she occasionally shared awkward elevator rides with, the one with intense eyes who always seemed to be observing more than he let on. They weren't friends, weren't enemies. Just… colleagues occupying the same space, now acutely aware of each other.

He'd been near the windows when the lights died. Now he moved towards the center of the room, a tall shape in the shadows. "Well," his voice was calm, cutting through the rain's noise, "looks like we're settling in."

"How long do these usually last?" she asked, trying to keep her tone professional, casual. Her voice felt too loud in the sudden quiet.

"Depends," he said, stopping near the end of the long conference table where she sat. "Could be quick. Could be a while. No way to know until security gives the all-clear." He wasn't looking at her, more surveying the dark room, but she felt his awareness focused entirely on her small pool of light.

She forced herself to look back at her screen, trying to focus on the report. Pointless. Her skin prickled. Every small sound seemed amplified – the rain, her own breathing, the soft click of her laptop keys.

He moved again, walking slowly around the table towards her side. Ostensibly to look out the other set of windows, maybe? But his path brought him closer. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, pretending to type, though the words blurred.

He stopped a few feet behind her chair. She could feel him standing there. Just standing. Watching? The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

"Still working on the Braxton slides?" he asked, his voice closer now. Normal question. Work talk.

"Trying to," she managed, keeping her eyes fixed forward. "The numbers aren't lining up."

She heard him take a step closer. Close enough now that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. Close enough that if she leaned back even slightly, she'd touch him. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"Maybe a fresh pair of eyes?" he suggested. Still work talk. But his proximity felt… loaded.

She turned and met his eyes, then nodded stiffly. "Okay."

Those eyes had a glimpse of, we have been wanting to do this - from far away - from mere glances - from ever since she joined the company - both slightly aware of the heat beneath them - and maybe just maybe - today we have more than enough time, to do more than merely glance.

He leaned in, placing one hand on the back of her chair, the other resting lightly on the table beside her laptop, boxing her in slightly. His head bent near hers, his focus supposedly on the screen.

She could smell rain on his coat, a faint woodsy scent underneath. Her breath hitched. She tried to focus on the spreadsheet, pointing a shaky finger at a cell. "This projection seems off, compared to Q2..."

His gaze followed her finger, but she felt it linger.

Felt his attention split between the numbers and… her. His knuckles brushed the side of her neck as he leaned slightly more forward. Accidental? hope not. It sent a jolt down her spine anyway.

"Yeah, I see," he murmured, his voice low, thoughtful. He was still talking about the numbers. Probably. His hand on the back of her chair shifted, fingers brushing against her shoulder blade through the thin fabric of her blouse.

Definitely not accidental this time.

She froze. Didn't pull away. Didn't lean in. Just… stopped breathing for a second. Waiting.

He didn't move his hand away. It just rested there, warm, heavy. A silent claim in the darkness. He continued talking about the spreadsheet, pointing to something on the screen with his other hand.

His voice was perfectly even, professional. But the hand on her shoulder blade started a slow, almost imperceptible stroking motion with just his thumb. Back and forth. Hypnotic.

His warmth came right from skin, over his shirt and settled low in her belly.

Exciting. Not Unwanted. Yet Thrilling.

Her skin prickled where he touched her. She swallowed hard, trying to focus on his work words, but they were dissolving into meaningless sounds. All she could feel was his thumb moving on her back, his solid presence behind her, the electric tension coiling tighter and tighter.

Her back arched a bit, as she adjusted her legs, but she couldn't, could she?

"…so if we adjust that variable," he was saying, leaning even closer now, his cheek almost brushing her hair, "it should cascade through the rest of the forecast." His hand slid slowly from her shoulder blade down her spine, fingers tracing the dip at her waist before resting lightly on her hip. Possessive. Anchoring.

Her eyes fluttered closed for a fraction of a second. A tiny gasp escaped her lips. She bit her lip as she let it happen. The wind had only started to grew louder.

She forced her eyes open, staring blindly at the bright screen. This wasn't happening. Coworkers. Professionalism. But it was. And she wasn't going to stop it.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice still calm, still focused on the work, but his fingers tightened slightly on her hip. He knew what his touch was doing to her.

The locked eyes again.

"Fine," she said in a low voice. that wasn't fine. that was a yes.

"Yeah," he agreed softly. His free hand left the table, came up to gently brush a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered on her cheek for a heartbeat too long.

Testing. "Long night." His gaze wasn't on the screen anymore. She felt it on the side of her face, burning hot. She couldn't bring herself to turn, to meet it. How could she?

His hand slid from her hip, trailing fire down her side, fingers dipping just under the waistband of her skirt at her back. Just the tips. Resting against the bare skin above her panty line. She sucked in a sharp breath, her whole body going rigid.

"The storm…" he murmured, his voice low, almost conversational, right by her ear again. His breath fanned across her skin. He was ignoring her reaction, pretending this wasn't happening.

The dissonance was maddening. His fingers pressed slightly firmer against her bare skin. Not pushing boundaries yet. Just… there. A promise. A threat. "Doesn't look like it's clearing up anytime soon."

And as he said the last word, his fingers suddenly, smoothly, dipped lower, sliding inside the back of her panties, pressing directly against her bare, sensitive flesh. Finding the slick heat already gathering there. One finger, pressing into her cleft, seeking.

A strangled moan ripped from her throat, raw and involuntary. Her back arched violently, pushing her pelvis back against his hand without conscious thought. She bit her lip again. Her hand moving the mouse - as if she was still working, and this was only a dream.

"Stand up" he said softly.

And while his finger lay inside her, she stood up - barely.

He slid the chair aside with the other hand and stood right behind her.

She moaned with every move. whined - would be the right word.

Could you believe it ? Her hand never left the mouse.

Just like his finger never left her clit.

She bend down. The overwhelming heat from her chest made her - perform.

And he bend behind her - towering his huge body so that his face lay right beside hers.

He took his finger out, and she felt - ashamed?

His hands rested on her waist, carefully, thumbing her ass.

She moved back - a little more. Until her ass lay right on his going.

Both of them - fully clothed. yet they weren't.

His breath hitched, as he moved his waist on her ass. Moving her back and forth. As if - he was inside her. She moaned - louder this time.

That's when he decided to stand straight.

His one hand went straight to her throat and the other slid back under her skirt - right inside her panties.

A low sound, almost a groan, rumbled in his chest, vibrating beside her. While her hands laid open on the desk. Yes. she left the mouse unattended. How chould she even manage to focus?

His fingers, now slick with her wetness, slid further, finding her entrance. They pushed inside her slowly, deliberately. One knuckle deep. Two.

Stretching her gently. She gasped again, head falling forward, forehead resting against the cool surface of her desk beside the laptop. Her hands gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

"Yeah," he breathed, the word rough now, thick with sudden, undisguised need. His other hand gripped her opposite hip, holding her steady. Pinning her in place between the desk and his body. "Me neither."

Who was louder? The storm or She?

He started to move his fingers inside her. Slow, rhythmic strokes. Curling slightly. His thumb found her clit, pressing, circling through the thin fabric still covering her front. The contrast - his fingers deep inside her from behind, his thumb creating sharp sparks of pleasure at the front - was devastating.

She started to shake, whimpers escaping her lips with each push of his fingers, each rotation of his thumb. He leaned his body fully against her back, trapping her, letting her feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing urgently against her ass through his trousers. He nudged against her rhythmically, mirroring the movement of his fingers.

"This…" he panted softly against her hair, his professional calm completely gone now, replaced by raw hunger. "Fuck, …" He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to. He just kept moving his fingers, faster now, pumping steadily, his thumb rubbing relentlessly.

She was arched. She was moaning. She was whimpering.

His hand was tight on her throat, and the other was at work - deep work.

She was losing it. Mind dissolving into pure sensation. The office, the lockdown, the project – all faded away. There was only the darkness, the rain, his hands on her, inside her, his hard body against her back, the overwhelming pleasure building, building, building…

"Look at me," he commanded suddenly, his voice strained. He grabbed her chin, pulled her head up, twisting her slightly so their eyes met in the dim reflection of the laptop screen. His face was taut with desire, eyes blazing. Her own reflection was wrecked – flushed skin, dazed eyes, lips parted in breathless gasps. Seeing it, seeing him seeing it, pushed her over the edge.

Oh this is when she started shaking.

This is when she was on the verge of crying.

He hadn't even touched her blouse - yet it was almost off - two buttons down.

A sharp cry tore from her throat as her body convulsed around his fingers, waves of intense pleasure washing over her, making her legs tremble uncontrollably. She bucked against his hand, against his body, completely.

He groaned, thrusting his fingers digging into her flesh as her orgasm pulsed around them. He held her tight until her climax hit her like a physical blow.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, tangled together in the darkness. His fingers slowly stilled inside her, though he didn't withdraw them immediately. His forehead rested against her hair. The only sounds were her panting breaths and the steady drum of the rain.

Slowly, carefully, he eased his fingers out. He rested his hands on her hips for another second, then straightened up, stepping back slightly. Creating space. The sudden absence of his heat, his touch, left her feeling cold, exposed.

She didn't dare turn around. Kept her forehead pressed against the desk, trying to gather herself, embarrassment flooding in now that the intense haze was clearing. What had just happened?

And then his hands lay on her waist again, as he said, "The storm isn't over yet."