The wind whispered against the tall windows like a secret no one wanted to hear. Thirty floors above the street, the city glowed — neon signs pulsing, cars like ants weaving between towers of steel and glass. But up here, it was quiet. Up here, it felt like we'd stolen time.
Elaine stood at the edge of the kitchen, leaning against the marble island, framed by the low ambient light that gave everything a honey-colored sheen. She wore a bathrobe, cinched loosely at the waist, hinting at the softness beneath without revealing too much. Every subtle movement — a shift of her hips, a stretch of her arm — was like a silent invitation. Teasing. Always teasing.
She didn't look at me. She didn't need to. She knew I was watching.
My gaze followed the curve of her back, the way the robe clung just enough to suggest the shape beneath. As she reached for a cup on the top shelf, the robe tugged slightly, slipping off one shoulder to reveal smooth skin and the elegant slope of her collarbone.
"You know the view from here's pretty decent," I said, sipping from my glass of wine, eyes fixed on her.
"Mm," she replied, tilting her head ever so slightly, offering just a little more of that shoulder. "The city is gorgeous at night."
"Wasn't talking about the city."
She smirked — that wicked, knowing little curve of her lips — but still didn't turn around.
"Pervert," she said over her shoulder.
"Absolutely."
She walked toward me, barefoot, the soft rustle of her robe the only sound besides the quiet hum of the city outside. Her hips swayed with every step, the robe slipping and sliding ever so slightly, threatening but never crossing that final line. Halfway to the couch, she paused, turning just enough to meet my eyes with a look that said she knew exactly what she was doing.
Her robe suddenly fell down onto the floor, leaving her completely bare.
Then she walked forwards to me, her body even more tempting and vivacious. As I watched on, the faintest smirk still played on her lips.
I smiled, both tempted and thoroughly entertained.
She didn't hesitate. She climbed into my lap like she had every right to be there — like she belonged there — straddling me with smooth, confident ease. Hugging me tight as if it was the last time she would ever see me again. The heat of her skin pressed against mine, her arms around my neck, her breath a whisper against my lips.
"I was starting to think you wouldn't make a move," she said softly.
"I was waiting for the knockout punch," I murmured, hands sliding along her back, palms splayed wide across warm skin.
I kissed her. Deep and slow. Her body moved against me, a slow grind that made my thoughts stutter and scatter. My hands explored her like I was trying to memorize everything — the dip of her waist, the warmth of her thighs, the quiet gasp that slipped from her lips when I pulled her closer.
We didn't rush. We never did. With Elaine, it was always a slow burn — one that started behind the eyes and worked its way down.
"Say it again, Marcus," she breathed, her mouth brushing mine. "Say I'm yours."
"You're mine, Elaine," I said, voice rough with need. "Always."
She closed her eyes — not from fear. From trust.
Later that night, we lay tangled and intertwined with each other, the void-black night outside washed in rainfall and the dim flicker of city light. She was curled into me, skin to skin, her hand resting over my heart like she was afraid it might stop if she let go.
"I wish it could always be like this," she murmured.
"So do I," I said.
But we both knew better.
For one night — just one — we lived like we had it all.
And when it was gone, this would be the night I'd bleed and die to remember.