The elevator lights flickered once more, casting long, unsteady shadows across their bodies. Glen’s breathing was already ragged, her chest rising and falling too fast. Peter didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His hands moved with purpose—firm, unhurried, but unmistakably in command.
He turned her around in one smooth motion, guiding her until her palms pressed flat against the mirrored wall. The cold glass made her gasp softly. She saw herself reflected back: cheeks flushed, lips swollen from earlier kisses, eyes wide and glassy with want. Behind her, Peter’s tall frame loomed, his reflection dark and steady, eyes locked on hers in the mirror.
“Look at yourself,” he said quietly, voice low and rough. “See what you look like right now.”
Glen’s gaze dropped to her own reflection—hair slightly messy, blouse half-unbuttoned, skirt already rucked up around her hips. She looked… undone. Beautifully undone. And the sight of it sent a fresh wave of heat straight between her legs.
Peter’s fingers hooked under the waistband of her panties. He didn’t tease. He simply tugged them down—slow enough to make her feel every inch of fabric sliding over her skin, fast enough to leave no room for hesitation. The lace caught briefly on her thighs before pooling at her ankles. She stepped out of them automatically, kicking them aside.
Now she was bare from the waist down, skirt bunched at her hips, ass exposed to the cool air and to him.
He stepped in close again. She felt the rough denim of his jeans against the backs of her thighs, felt the hard length of him pressing insistently between her cheeks through the fabric. One hand slid up her spine, pressing between her shoulder blades—gently but firmly—bending her forward until her forehead rested against the mirror. The position arched her back, pushed her ass out toward him, left her completely open.
“Look,” he murmured again, voice darker now. “Watch yourself while I fuck you.”
Glen obeyed. Her own reflection stared back—eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, cheeks burning. She watched as Peter’s hand disappeared behind her. Heard the sound of his zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then felt the blunt, hot head of his cock nudge against her entrance—thick, slick with pre-cum, pressing just enough to part her folds without pushing in yet.
She whimpered—soft, needy, involuntary.
He didn’t wait for permission.
He thrust in—hard, deep, one smooth stroke that buried him to the hilt.
Glen cried out, the sound sharp and startled, echoing off the metal walls. The stretch was immediate, overwhelming—perfect. He filled her completely, stretching her walls, pressing against every sensitive spot inside her at once. Her palms slid against the mirror, fingers splaying wide, trying to brace herself.
Peter didn’t give her time to adjust.
He started fucking her like a machine—fast, relentless, mechanical in the best way. Each thrust was deep and precise, hips snapping forward, balls slapping wetly against her clit with every stroke. The wet, filthy sounds of their bodies colliding filled the small space—skin on skin, slickness, her choked moans, his low grunts.
“Look at yourself,” he growled again, hand fisting in her hair, pulling her head back so she had to watch her own face in the mirror. “See how fucking desperate you look.”
She did.
Her reflection was wrecked—mouth open in a constant moan, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed crimson. Her breasts bounced under her half-open blouse with every brutal thrust. Her thighs trembled. She watched his reflection behind her—jaw tight, eyes dark with focus, hips driving into her like he owned her.
And he did.
Right now, in this metal box between floors, he owned every gasp, every shudder, every pulse of pleasure ripping through her.
One hand left her hair and slid around to her front. His fingers found her clit—swollen, slick, throbbing—and rubbed fast, rough circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts. The dual assault shattered her control.
“Fuck—Peter—”
Her voice broke. Her knees buckled. She would have fallen if not for his arm locked around her waist, holding her up while he pounded into her.
“Come,” he ordered, voice low and rough against her ear. “Come on my cock. Right now.”
She did.
The orgasm hit like a shockwave—sudden, violent, blinding. Her walls clamped down on him in rhythmic spasms, milking him hard. A sharp cry tore from her throat. Her legs gave out completely; only his grip kept her upright. Wetness gushed around his cock, dripping down her thighs, pooling on the elevator floor. She watched it all in the mirror—watched herself come apart, watched her own face twist in pleasure, watched her body shake uncontrollably.
Peter didn’t slow down.
He fucked her through it—harder, deeper—chasing his own release now. His thrusts turned erratic, hips slamming against her ass with bruising force. His breathing grew harsh, ragged.
“Fuck—Glen—”
He pulled out suddenly, hand flying to his cock. He spun her around—fast, almost rough—and pushed her back against the mirror. Her shoulders hit the glass. Her legs were still trembling, barely holding her up.
“Open,” he growled.
She did—mouth wide, tongue out, eyes locked on his.
He stroked himself twice, three times—fast, desperate—and came with a low, guttural groan.
Thick ropes of cum splashed across her tongue, her lips, her chin. Hot, heavy spurts hit the back of her throat; she swallowed reflexively, greedily, taking everything he gave her. Some dripped down her neck, soaked into her blouse, marked her skin. He kept his hand on the back of her head, holding her steady while he emptied himself completely.
When the last pulse faded, he finally released her.
Glen stayed on her knees, breathing hard, face and chest streaked with his release. She looked up at him—eyes glassy, lips swollen, chin shiny.
Peter exhaled slowly, chest still rising and falling fast. He tucked himself away, zipped up, smoothed his shirt like nothing had happened.
Then he looked down at her—small, satisfied smile touching his lips.
“You needed that,” he said quietly. Not a question.
Glen nodded once, dazed, still tasting him on her tongue.
He reached down, brushed a thumb across her lower lip—smearing what remained there.
“Time’s up,” he said. “Your floor.”
The elevator jolted once—finally moving again.
Peter stepped back, picked up the forgotten pizza box, and walked to the doors as they slid open.
He glanced at her one last time—dark eyes promising more later.
Then he stepped out.
The doors closed behind him.
Glen stayed on her knees a moment longer—legs weak, body humming, face messy with him.
She rose slowly.
She wiped her chin with the back of her hand.
She pressed the button for her floor.
And as the elevator resumed its quiet climb, she smiled—small, secret, satisfied.
She definitely needed that.
More than champagne.
More than anything.