stairwell

stairwell

She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes but the darkness in the stairwell did nothing to cool the flame inside her.

He’d looked at her.

She put her hand to her throat and traced the line of heat, down, over her chest, to the low dip of her shirt.

He’d looked straight at her. It was a second – no, it was a hundred seconds, she thought. It was forever, as his soul burned into hers, as she felt herself give everything she had.

It was a hundred thousand seconds.

Alone in the stairwell, she slid her fingers under her shirt, felt the button pop undone.

Had he known?

She wet her lips with her tongue and let her head turn to the cool of the wall, but she didn’t see the pale cream white of the walls around her or the dated iron railings, she saw the clean cut shape of his shoulders under his suit, the bright white of his shirt, the long grey tie. She breathed in, smelling the rich spice of his aftershave.

She gathered her skirt in her other hand, fisting the light fabric. There was no one there to see her, no one to know how he burned inside her, how she needed the touch, how desperate she was to feel him fill her.

She caught her fingers against the top of her stocking, the place just above the lacy trim, where her skin was at its softest. She stroked her leg, under the suspender, and up, searching for what she knew she had to have.

He would know how to take her, she thought. He wouldn’t hang back, unsure. He’d rip away her clothes and push up her skirt.

Her breathing came quicker and the sweet scent of her honey drifted up, teasing her, but just as she slid her fingers inside, as she sighed with her need, there was a noise on the floor below. She froze, her heart crashing in her chest. She whipped her hand away from her body.

“Don’t stop,” he said.