The Elevator Game
665 Words
Mondays were for suffering, and Olivia Lane had every intention of avoiding him like the plague. She arrived at the office at 7:59 a.m.—one minute before hell officially began—and made a beeline for her desk with her cardigan clutched like a security blanket. Unfortunately, the universe had a cruel sense of humor.
He was already there. In the elevator. Alone.
Their eyes met as the doors threatened to close.
He didn’t press the ‘Door Open’ button.
She slid in anyway, just in time.
“Miss Lane,” Nathaniel murmured, stepping to the side. The air was thick with tension.
“Mr. Blackwell.”
Silence. Two floors of it.
Then he glanced at her, slow and deliberate.
“You ignored me all weekend.”
She stared at the glowing floor numbers. “I was busy.”
“Too busy to answer my messages?”
“I was avoiding you. Not dead.”
He chuckled, deep and amused. “You’re honest. I like that.”
She glared. “I’m not here to be liked.”
“You weren’t saying that when you were riding me like a—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” she snapped.
The elevator shuddered slightly as it passed the 12th floor.
He leaned in, voice low. “You keep running away from me, Olivia, but you don’t want to stop. Do you?”
Her breath hitched. “That’s not—”
“Truth or dare,” he interrupted.
“What?”
“Truth or dare.”
She blinked. “Are you actually twelve?”
“Truth,” he said casually. “Have you touched yourself thinking about me since that night?”
She stared at him.
His jaw tightened.
“…yes.”
The elevator stopped. Ding. 15th floor.
But neither of them moved.
“Your turn,” he whispered.
“I’ll take dare.”
He leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“Don’t run next time you see me.”
The doors opened.
He left her there. Flushed. Frozen.
Pulse pounding.
---
The rest of the day was excruciating. Every glance he sent her made her squirm in her chair. Every time he called her into his office, her thighs pressed together instinctively.
It didn’t help that he was being... professional.
No flirting. No smirks. Just clipped, clean commands.
“Miss Lane, the quarterly file?”
“Yes, Mr. Blackwell.”
“The HR report?”
“Right here, sir.”
“Close the door behind you.”
Click.
She stood there, heart hammering.
He looked up. “Something else?”
“…No.”
But her hand lingered on the doorknob.
He stared at her. “Want to change that?”
Her voice was quiet. “I thought you were keeping it professional.”
His lips curved. “I lied.”
She took a single step forward.
“Truth or dare?” she asked.
He stood. Walked toward her like a predator. “Dare.”
“Kiss me,” she breathed.
He did.
Hard. Fast. Brutal.
His hand cradled her neck as he backed her into the door. Her mouth opened for him like she was starving.
Her skirt rode up. His hand was between her legs before she could stop him.
“No panties,” he growled. “You knew you’d end up in here.”
Her head lolled back against the door. “I hoped.”
He knelt, just like that—this six-foot-two CEO in an Armani suit, on his knees in front of her, tongue diving between her folds like he needed her to breathe.
Her hands tangled in his hair. She whimpered.
“Nathaniel—oh my God—”
She came hard, legs trembling, his name slipping from her lips in something close to a sob.
He stood. Licked his bottom lip. Smiled like a devil.
“You didn’t run.”
“Give me five minutes,” she panted.
He grinned. “Clock’s ticking.”
---
- Writer
