After hours

Chapter 5- The penthouse

The elevator ascent felt endless, each floor number lighting up like a countdown to detonation. My reflection stared back from the mirrored walls: black dress hugging every curve, deep V exposing the inner swell of my breasts, n*****s already peaked and visible through the thin silk because—no bra, as ordered. No panties either. The lack of fabric between my thighs made every shift of my hips a reminder of how wet I’d been since leaving the office, how Elaine’s advice looped in my head like a filthy mantra: Push him against the door. Edge him. Make him beg. Then ride him until he forgets his own name.

The doors parted on the penthouse level. Private hallway. One door. Matte black with discreet gold numbers: 4801.

I pressed the bell once—sharp, deliberate—then waited, pulse thundering in my ears.

The door opened in under five seconds.

Elias filled the frame: black button-down with sleeves rolled to the forearms, top buttons undone, dark trousers tailored to his thighs. No tie. Hair slightly mussed, as if he’d been pacing or running his fingers through it while waiting. His eyes raked over me—slow, possessive—from red-painted lips to the plunging neckline, down the cling of silk over hips, to the bare legs ending in strappy heels.

He didn’t speak. Just stepped aside.

I walked in, deliberately brushing my shoulder against his chest, letting my perfume and skin heat hit him. The door clicked shut. Locked.

The space opened like a dark, luxurious trap: floor-to-ceiling glass showing the entire city glittering below, warm ambient lighting from hidden fixtures, black leather sectional, glass coffee table, open kitchen with matte-black marble. It smelled like cedarwood, fresh linen, and him—warm, masculine, intoxicating.

I turned slowly to face him.

He stood by the door, arms loosely crossed, watching me with that same controlled intensity I’d seen in the conference room—only now there was no one to interrupt, no call to pull him away.

I smiled—slow, confident. “You said black dress. No bra. No panties.”

His gaze dropped to my chest—n*****s hard points against silk—then lower, as if he could see the absence beneath the hem.

“I see that,” he said, voice low and roughened by want.

I took one step toward him. Then another. Close enough that he had to uncross his arms.

“Your turn,” I murmured. “Show me you meant every word from last night.”

He exhaled—sharp, almost a growl—then closed the distance in one stride.

His hand caught my waist, the other cupped the back of my neck, and he spun us until my back met the door—firm, pinning, but careful not to hurt. His mouth claimed mine instantly: hard, hungry, no preamble. Teeth grazed my lip, tongue sweeping deep, tasting me like he’d been craving it for years instead of hours.

I moaned into his kiss, hands fisting his shirt, yanking him closer. My hips rolled forward, grinding against the thick, insistent ridge already straining his trousers. He groaned—low, primal—into my mouth and wedged his thigh between my legs so I could ride the pressure.

“f**k,” he rasped against my lips, pulling back just enough to speak. “You really came with nothing underneath.”

I nipped his jaw. “Check for yourself.”

His hand slid down my side, over my hip, bunching the dress higher. Fingers traced bare thigh, then higher—slow, teasing—until he found only slick, bare heat.

He stilled for one heartbeat. Then his fingers slipped between my folds, gliding through the wetness, circling my c**t once—light, maddening.

I gasped, head falling back against the door.

“So f*****g wet already,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “All day thinking about this?”

“Since you pulled your fingers out in the conference room,” I breathed. “Since you left me throbbing and empty.”

He pressed harder—two fingers sliding inside me, curling just right. My knees buckled; he pinned me with his body, thigh rocking against my c**t while his fingers pumped slow and deep.

“You come like this first,” he said against my throat. “Against my hand. Then on my tongue. Then on my c**k. Understand?”

“Yes,” I whimpered as his thumb found my c**t again—perfect circles, perfect pressure.

His mouth moved to my neck—kissing, sucking, teeth scraping enough to leave faint red blooms. “Say it.”

“Yes,” I gasped. “I understand.”

“Good girl.”

The praise detonated something inside me. My hips jerked; pleasure coiled tight and fast. He added a third finger—stretching me—thrusting harder while his thumb circled relentlessly.

I shattered—hard, sudden, crying his name as my body clenched around his fingers, thighs shaking, vision blurring. He didn’t stop—kept stroking through it, drawing it out until I was trembling, oversensitive, pleading for mercy.

He withdrew slowly, brought his fingers to his mouth, licked them clean while holding my gaze.

Then he kissed me again—letting me taste myself on his tongue.

When he pulled back, his eyes were black with hunger.

“Bedroom,” he commanded.

He scooped me up—effortless, one arm under my knees, the other around my back—and carried me down the hallway.

The bedroom was vast: king bed with charcoal sheets, city lights flooding through uncovered windows, no curtains to hide us from the night. He set me on my feet at the foot of the bed.

“Turn around.”

I obeyed.

His hands found the zipper—slow, torturously slow—pulling it down inch by inch, exposing skin to cool air. The dress pooled at my feet.

I stood naked except for the heels.

He stepped behind me, chest to my back, erection pressing hard against my ass through his trousers. One hand cupped my breast—thumb brushing the n****e—while the other slid between my legs again, finding me drenched.

“On the bed,” he ordered. “On your knees. Ass up.”

I climbed onto the mattress, knees spread, back arched, face pressed to the sheets.

He stood behind me, just looking—long enough that I felt exposed, desired, owned.

Then belt unbuckled. Zipper rasped. Fabric hit the floor.

His hands gripped my hips—firm, possessive.

“Tell me what you want, Liora.”

I looked back over my shoulder. “You. Inside me. No more holding back.”

He leaned over me, c**k sliding along my folds—hot, thick, teasing my entrance.

“No more holding back,” he echoed.

Then he thrust in—deep, slow, stretching me until he was buried to the hilt.

We both groaned—raw, broken.

He paused, letting me feel every inch, letting me adjust.

Then he moved.

Slow at first—long, deliberate strokes that hit every sensitive spot.

Then harder.

Faster.

One hand fisted in my hair—pulling my head back so he could kiss my neck while he f****d me.

The other hand slid around to my c**t—rubbing tight circles.

I came again—harder, clenching around him, sobbing his name.

He didn’t stop.

He flipped me onto my back, legs over his shoulders, driving deeper—relentless, eyes locked on mine.

“Look at me when you come again,” he growled.

I did.

When the third orgasm ripped through me—white-hot, endless—he followed—burying deep, pulsing inside me with a guttural groan, face buried in my neck.

We collapsed together—sweaty, tangled, breathing ragged.

He eased out gently, rolled us so I lay across his chest.

His arms wrapped around me—tight, protective.

“Stay,” he murmured against my hair.

I kissed his collarbone. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The city lights glittered outside.

After hours had only just begun.