🔥STEAMY ALERT—and we're back to mild, sorry🔥

♫ Look what you're doing to me
Ooh your love, it's better than I remember ♪
{BANKS feat. Francis & The Lights—Look what you're doing to me}

Caught up in a swirl of emotions—shame and exhaustion from last night's events, joy and anxiety at Bella's abrupt arrival—Coralie left for work early. She tripped out of the Uber as it deposited her before her building—she was in no mood for public transportation—and came close to flopping into the swinging doors leading inside. Almost spilled her coffee, fought to get her badge out, got her words mixed up when speaking to the security guard—she was a mess, and eager to scamper upstairs to cloister into her office.

To her relief, she was alone waiting for the elevator. Either no one was coming in that day, or everyone had already arrived and all were busy at work. Regardless, she didn't care, if that meant she'd get some silence, some peace of mind. Small talk in elevators—which happened a lot in this place—wasn't something she enjoyed. And today, she needed respite from the chitter-chatter and a moment to recompose herself before she had to face her bosses.

The machine arrived, the doors opened, she marched in. The enclosed space was stuffy and overheated as if it had been occupied by a horde of people minutes before, but at least it was vacant, now. She sucked in a deep breath, tapping a foot to the ground, impatient to take off. The sooner she got to her chair, the sooner she could whip out her notebook and scribble down all the chaotic thoughts in her head.

As she let out a lengthy exhale, watching the doors close, she started when someone lunged inside at the last minute, joining her in her quiet, comfortable ride.

She would have nodded in salutation and focused her gaze on her feet to ignore this sudden arrival; but it wasn't any random person. No, of course, the fates were out to get her. She'd jinxed herself last night, she'd breached limits she wasn't supposed to, and now she had to pay a hefty price.

A price in the disheveled but ridiculously sexy shape of Chester.

He didn't pay attention to her at first, too occupied with pressing the button for his floor, then unzipping his jacket, fidgeting to stuff a half-smoked cigarette into one of his pockets. He appeared antsy, annoyed, grumbling under his breath as if unaware someone else was nearby.

The elevator took off, and finally he gazed towards her, lowered his chin, then lifted it, eyes widening.

"Oh?" His demeanor—harried, stressed—changed at the sight of her, turning somehow tenser. He blinked, and his smile didn't quite reach his ears. A few red splotches whizzed through his eyes, fading them to a brackish, basil color. He perked up, poked his torso out, then deflated. "Cora."

"Chester," she said, sounding much too formal. As if addressing a stranger who'd invaded her privacy, another morning elevator rider that she didn't wish to engage in any conversation with. She cleared her throat and tried to fix her voice into a warmer timbre. "How... how are you?"

He shrugged, one half of his mouth cocking into a smirk, the other wrinkling, working to fight his emotions. "Eh, the usual." He tucked a few messy hairs behind his ears; their tips were red, as were his cheeks. Had he been running? "I'm running behind schedule today; stayed up way too late last night, as always."

It explained the redness in his eyes—which occurred when he smoked a bit too much and imbibed in one too many cocktails. Coralie gritted her teeth, sealing her lips together so he wouldn't see her trying not to cringe. She had no right to ask questions, to presume he'd spent the night with someone else, doing the things he would have normally been doing with her. They'd stepped away from each other, at her request; it'd be unfair for her to judge, and to be jealous.

But she was, anyway. More so after having pictured him with her last night, covering her in kisses that paralyzed her with pleasure. It had been a fantasy, sure, but a minuscule part of her had wished it were real.

"It's like we're always bumping into each other in the elevator, huh?" She'd meant to be funny, lighten the mood; but her tone came out irritated, impatient.

The elevator bumped upward, but didn't stop, continuing its never-ending trek to the upper floors where Chester and Coralie both worked.

Chester rubbed the back of his neck and flinched. "I'm sorry, princess." He glanced at her, eyes watery, then re-focused on the ground. "I didn't do this one on purpose. I respect your boundaries, you know that. Yeah, I got a bit stalker-ish at one point, but I'm done doing that, I swear."

Coralie should have thanked him for that respect, for how he kept a distance between them—they stood on opposite ends of the box—but something pinched in her belly, preventing her from doing so. Was it disappointment? Surprise? Disbelief? She couldn't tell, but the sensation didn't sit well with her.

He'd been so vivid in her wet-dream, so forward with how he'd approached her and taken control of her body. So present, so clear; and now, he was like a ghost, a shadow of his usual self. She'd never seen him so reluctant to get into her space, and it was unlike him. Confused, Coralie wondered if something was wrong. If he needed a little push, a little nagging; maybe he hadn't had his coffee yet. Or maybe he wasn't as attracted to her anymore.

But he was, he had to be. The buzzing in the air, the static in the atmosphere—their attraction to one another was causing it. They were two magnets needing to cram into one another, but kept apart by a giant wall of steel. She felt it, he felt it too, surely. So a tiny part of her wished he'd ignore her requests to spend time separated. That he'd barge into that wall, that he'd shove against her, pin her against the doors, and make out with her savagely, sliding his fingers into her underwear and twirling until she reached her climax—and her floor.

Shit, why am I still so horny? I thought my session took care of things.

Something about his remoteness bothered her more than she'd hoped, and she had the urge to prod him, to tease him, to get a reaction out of him. To push his boundaries, to elicit a grin, maybe a peck on the cheek—some kind of contact she could feed off until she made her decision. She wanted to know if he still craved her, or if he'd given up because she was unattainable, because she already had two other prospects and he'd arrived too late.

Had he spent the night with another woman? Another man? Both? Or was he still stuck on her? The questions ate her on the inside, but she wouldn't dare ask them. As much as she craved it, she couldn't transgress their agreements.

"We can still be friends during this time, you know," she said, peering up at the shifting numbers above the doors. "You're aware of what's going on, and I won't shut you out completely. Not if we can be... civil. Good. Behave."

Chester's head whipped up, and he stared at her, lips parting enough to show his tongue dancing behind his teeth. "You know that's not true." He leaned against the mirrored backdrop, arms crossed, and arched an eyebrow. "Be serious."

"Serious? You? Us?" She scoffed. "And why not?" She mimicked his posture, and he watched her, batting his lashes. Was he amused? She couldn't tell. So far away, yet so close—he observed her every movement carefully, capturing it to memory, as if preparing to not see her again for a while. "We're adults. We've behaved in the past, haven't we?"

He narrowed his gaze, but otherwise didn't move from his spot. "Did we? Maybe when we were sober, I guess."

"I just..." Coralie dropped her arms to her sides and huffed. "I hate this." She motioned at the emptiness between them. "It's like we're barely acquaintances, you know? It's not right. We can stand near each other and not get gross, can't we?"

Even as she said it, she knew she was full of shit. No, they couldn't stand near each other. One would cave and attack the other and next they knew, they'd be naked.

As if to prove her point, in a swift sashay, Chester swished up to teeter before her. No more than an inch separated them, and though he kept his hands to himself, she could have sworn she felt them grabbing her face, her shoulders, her hips, drawing her closer to him. His proximity provoked her, tore the air from her lungs, and prompted her legs to become jittery.

But she welcomed the sensations; hadn't she wished for them, seconds ago?

"You think I like it?" His breath washed over her—peppermint with an after-taste of cigarette that oddly woke flutters in Coralie's abdomen.

She loathed smokers, but she remembered how Chester was so sensual when he took part in the habit. He'd bring the cigarette to his lips, let it linger as he inhaled, never breaking eye-contact. Then he'd draw it out slowly, softly, and blow out the smoke while winking at her.

She shuddered. "I didn't say—"

He slithered closer; not quite touching her, but near enough to sense, almost enough to taste. A thin yet heavy film of air separated them, preventing either from succumbing to the other.

"I fucking despise it, Cora. To stand across the way and look at you, flushed and adorable as hell, seeing you try so hard not to stare? To have to pretend not to know what you look like under those clothes? How you move when you're on top of me, below me? The flavor of your mouth, your skin, your—" He sighed and leaned forward, his lips hovering over her forehead. "It's torture."

"I..." She angled forward, too, forcing his lips to collide into her skin. Initiating the contact they'd been so desperate to avoid. An electric shock ran through her, and she had no doubt that it ran through him, too; he shivered, but didn't back away. "I know."

He raised his hand, curled it into a fist, winced—then ran his fingers through her hair. His fingertips only grazed her head, but it was enough to send pulsations up and down her spine and tingles to her belly. "Be friends?"

He licked his lips, and his tongue brushed over the bridge of her nose; wet, coarse, crushing the weight in her gut. Igniting the signal in her brain that told her to run, to hide, to save herself. But she couldn't move.

He shifted side to side, and she caught a whiff of his cologne—fresh and sweet like a wintry breeze mixed with a berry-flavored candle. "You want us to be friends when we're like fireworks, shooting up into the sky, spiraling into one another, and exploding? When we sizzle when we're next to each other? No. We're not friends."

Though he wasn't holding her or blocking her way, it was as if she was stuck. Her limbs wouldn't respond to the screaming in her brain. Her heart thumped, continuously propelling her into him, her chest to his chest, her lower half into his—

Oh. Shit.

He was hard. His coat had been covering where his jeans zipper was, so she hadn't been able to notice until now. Nor had she gaped at that spot, on purpose, knowing full well if she did... she'd jump him. And now, sure enough, she wanted to.

He snuck closer, as if knowing what she was thinking. That her hunger for him was growing unbearable. Taunting her to take action, but knowing damn well she wouldn't. She couldn't.

Feeling him against her, firm, throbbing through the thick fabric of his pants, she wanted nothing more than to drop her drawers and spread her legs and let him in. Despite all her reservations, all her promises—a speck of his skin on hers and his body in her space was enough to make her crumble.

He stood there, still slurring his fingers through her tresses, his breaths accelerating, that bulge growing harder, likely close to explosion. They didn't speak—they didn't need to—and conveyed all their thoughts, their desires, with a few sparks, a few brief seconds of contact, a few gasps. She was on the brink of implosion, and without a kiss, without a stroke, his member was at the ready and yearning to explore her.

She chewed so hard on her lower lip that it became numb. It took all her might to keep her chin dipped, to avoid meeting his mouth as it pressed against her forehead, her temples, her upper cheeks. He wasn't kissing her, only fluttering his lips from spot to spot, like a bee buzzing from flower to flower, taking simple sips of nectar out of pleasure. And every time he landed, she held in the convulsions in her arms, the buckling of her knees. If she collapsed, he'd catch her, carry her to her office, deposit her on her desk where he'd undress her, admire her, devour her.

"Fuck." She arched her spine, pushing further into him. He didn't recoil, but didn't respond to her movement, remaining in place, sweeping her skin with not-kisses. "I... goddammit, Chester." Her breathy voice confessed her ecstasy, and she was ready to melt in his arms, to open herself to him, to let him do whatever he pleased.

What would he do? Be responsible, wait for them to exit the elevator? Or take her right there, risking exposure? Would he press that emergency stop button—like they did in movies—and secure her against the wall as he removed her clothing piece by piece? Lather her with real kisses, from her lips to her nipples to the pool of moisture between her legs? Then strip his clothes and reveal his erection that he'd hurry to squeeze into her, aware they'd have limited time before they were caught?

The ding of the elevator's approach to his floor drew them apart. He coughed into his hand as he side-stepped, and Coralie sucked her lips inward as she gawked at her shoes. She combed her fingers through her mane, rearranging it, still sensing his fingertips tangled in the strands.

But the moment was over; the trance was broken. Whatever she'd imagined him doing would remain as a fantasy that she'd likely continue later, alone, in her bedroom.

I'm going to do a lot of touching myself during this "break" phase, aren't I?

"I'm sorry," he said, as the doors creaked open. He spun on his heels and exited, walking backwards, a bashful smile forming over his mouth. "I'll start taking the stairs from now on. Or come to work at a different time... because I can't concentrate when I'm around you." The doors started to close, but he stood in their passage, barring them. "That's why we can't be friends, Cora. Not until you've made your final decision, and made it clear we can't fuck each other senseless anymore. Until then... all I'm gonna want to do is ravage you. And I can't. So... let's stay apart, for our own sanity, yeah?" He inclined his head in farewell, and moved out of the way.

The doors shut, and she slid down the wall, crumbling into a pile on the floor. She was woozy, wobbly, and uneasy, her vision blurry and her underwear uncomfortably wet.

She hoped Chester really would start taking the stairs, because she wouldn't survive another erotic elevator encounter with him.

♥♥♥