I'm in trouble. For the first time in three years I might be late for work.

We're in the slowest elevator on earth. Just the two of us.

I only caught a glimpse of him when he got on board on the second floor, together with some businessman who got out again promptly on the third – thankfully, because he was having a rather tense phone conversation and the secondhand embarrassment was starting to make my armpits itch.

I caught his height and his skin tone and a flash of a smile when he, in turn, caught me looking.

Or at least I think he did. Maybe he was smiling at the leggy blonde behind me who has also left the elevator on the third floor. Probably.

I'm too chicken to turn around. I can't start a conversation. Nobody can start a freaking conversation these days. Especially in an elevator. I mean, come on. That's just awkward.

On the panel above the door, the little red dot creeps across the numbers and the dots between them. I check my watch. Good thing I've made a habit of always being more than punctual. Still, coming only four minutes early feels like being late. Good grief, I should've taken the stairs.

Then again, the staircase smells like old paint and new linoleum. Thanks to him, this elevator smells like old spice. I prefer the latter by far.

Between the sixth and seventh floor, I hear him shift behind me. He coughs softly. Not like he's trying to catch my attention, though.

I think.

Or is he?

Suddenly, the elevator seems very small and tight.

Tight. God, that word. Only thinking about it makes me feel warmer all over suddenly. It features heavily in that novel on my nightstand. Or, more accurately, in my nightstand. I don't dare to leave it lying around even thought I've been the only person in my bedroom for... uh, years. Decades.

Hope dies last, I suppose. Even if it's so preposterous and kinda perverted that someone would just come up to me, corner me like one of those cocky, handsome bastards from my novel, and say something like-

“It's cute how you're trying so hard to ignore me.”

Either I'm having auditory hallucinations or he's actually reading the same books as me, and quoting from them randomly at random strangers in random narrow elevator cabins. My breath halts in my lungs. I don't dare to move a muscle. Which, I realize, is very stupid. It's not like I'm not in plain sight, right in front of him in this tiny metal box.

I entertain the idea of playing deaf. What a waste that would be, though. His voice is deep and pleasant.

Before I manage to actually open my mouth or at least turn my head and look at him to show that I'm not, in fact, deaf and know that he's talking to me, I think I feel a touch on the small of my back. Just once, just a little point of contact, like the tip of an index finger grazing down my spine.

Tactile hallucinations? All at once, I'm all sweat and hammering heart.

I feel the whisper of a breath against the shell of my ear. His voice sends tickling vibrations zapping down my spine. I want to squirm away from the intensity of it, but I don't.

“If that's how you want to play... let's play.” His touch gets more insistent, more definitive. His breath is hot. “Here are the rules: You move, you make a single sound,” his voice drops to a raspy whisper, “and I'll stop immediately.”

I let my eyes fall shut and the input from my other senses seems to grow stronger – his smell, the warmth radiating from him, the pressure of his big palm against my back and his sheer closeness – so much so that I have to open my eyes again. I bite back a sound that's bubbling up my throat and I still don't move. I wonder if the thundering noise of my heart or the sudden twitch of my muscles should, technically, disqualify me and end this game right on the spot.

As he registers my efforts to follow his rules, I can feel his smirk against my ear where he has pressed his lips to the upper bow. “I knew you would join in.” His hand slips down. I inhale when his palm cups my right ass cheek through my skirt. His fingers dig into my flesh possessively. “You're panting for it. It's obvious.” His arm wraps around my torso so that his other hand can rest against my stomach. Undecided yet whether it wants to go north or south first? My insides seem to wriggle around at the thought of either possibility. “You know, I like that a lot,” he says.

I open my mouth to deny it, or to sneer deprecatingly at his words. Obvious, me? If I were, my nightstand drawer wouldn't be the only place where the magic happens in my bedroom. Also, I can't afford to be obvious. A woman can't have a career if the men ever catch a whiff of the bitch in heat. Not to mention that I am too old for this. Or am I? I feel too old for my blood to be stirring like this.

As if by magic, he has caught my scent nonetheless. And he likes it. A lot. I don't know whether to laugh or to cry.

The hand on my stomach has decided to slip underneath my blazer and upwards to my breast. He cups me and squeezes hard enough for me to feel every single finger through the fabric of my blouse and my padded bra. I bite my lip hard to keep from whimpering. My tits have never been particularly sensitive, but the roughness and unapologetic indecency of his touch has my knees literally quivering.

And then his other hand slips down the curve of my ass, gathers up the material of my skirt, and thrusts between my legs from behind, and I bite down so hard that blood wells from my lip. Oh God. I dare to push up to my toes in my high heels, and to tilt my pelvis up, to relieve the pressure. To no avail.

He tsks as his fingers press up against my most sensitive spot. “So wrapped up.” He's referring to the panty hose, my panties and the pantyliner in them that separate him from my flesh. My swollen and weeping, achy flesh that responds to his harsh touch by swelling and aching and weeping even more. “Hmm. It will do... this time.”

I barely keep myself from asking what he means by that. He pinches my nipple through my bra so roughly that it almost hurts, and suddenly pulls me backwards with his arm. I stagger half against him and catch myself against the handrail. We're backed up into the corner of the cabin.

The cabin softly jerks to a halt. The bell chimes. Both sets of doors slide open. Three people enter the elevator. I see their pale faces at the edge of my vision because I don't dare to look up at them. They would see my flaming cheeks and my bloodied lip and the sheen of sweat on my forehead.

Also, I don't want to see whether they have noticed that his hand is still down there.

Have they noticed that his fingers are moving...?

Over my hose, panties and pantyliner, his fingertip draws a line from my clit to my entrance and back, making me feel like I'm grinding on him.

… that my pantyliner is overflowing with every touch, slick and slippery from sweat and that clear dew that I sometimes lick off my fingers when I'm in bed with that book, imagining they are not my fingers-

He presses two fingers flat against my pussy until I can feel my own pulse pounding in my labia.

… and I'm going to come right here in this elevator, in front of all these people, at the hands of this complete stranger whom I allowed to molest me, like I'm one of those desperate and irresistibly desirable women in the novels I read way too often.

He pushes his middle finger against my bud, and the heel of his thumb into the hollow of my vagina and I'm imagining us there, him with one hand inconspicuously between my legs from behind, the other hand in his pocket for his own pleasure, me, trapped and helpless against his touch and oh, oh fuck, I'm cumming-!

“Excuse me, I think this is your floor?”

I blink, then blink again. Then I wipe my chin because I could swear I was drooling. I don't even care which floor we're on, I have to get out of this elevator right now.

I mumble something that might have been “uh, thanks” and practically dive out through the open doors to go find a restroom. I need toilet paper. Lots. Maybe a wet wipe or two. Some deodorant.

I hope my awkward waddle is not as obvious as I think it is.

Before the elevator door shuts behind me again, I have another auditory hallucination. I swear I can hear him mumble “Oh, it's obvious” with a chuckle that zaps down my spine again.

***

I got off on the wrong floor, but it's not critical. It's just two flights of stairs up to the office now, which I take with exaggerated slowness to get my body temperature back to normal and my thoughts back in line. I'm very aware of that obtrusively chemically-flowery smell of my fresh panty liner and the odor of the restroom soap clinging to my hands and my armpits. Fantastic conditions for an interview. Thank God I'm the interviewer, not the interviewee.

Standing in front of the heavy metal staircase exit door, I go over my wardrobe and hair once more, pull everything into place, take a deep breath and then step out onto the floor of my IT company.

I make sure to absolutely not walk funny and grit my teeth through the tingling at the apex of my thighs. I'm glad to see it's working because the receptionist greets me with the same friendly if joyless smile as usual, then goes back to playing Candy Crush without giving me a second glance.

Good.

I'm not obvious. I have no idea what he was talking about.

I enter the conference room and find our senior manager already there, engaged in friendly conversation with the interviewee.

Whose smile I recognize at once.

I freeze on the spot and my breath halts.

“Good morning,” he says as he spots me, tone polite and friendly.

I shake off my stupor and offer a hand – slightly trembling – in greeting.

“I'm sorry, it seems I got you off at the wrong floor,” he says as our fingers lock.

Something in his bright smile and in his flinty eyes says 'not sorry'.

I'm in trouble.