Elena shoved the glass doors open. Her heels struck the marble floor with a sharp click that echoed through the vast space. The penthouse loomed around her, city lights spilling across endless windows. Leather and wealth hung heavy in the air. She gripped her resume tight, knuckles pale, heart slamming against her ribs.
Alexander Voss stood behind a desk of dark, rare wood. At forty-five, his suit hugged the hard lines of his body beneath a crisp shirt. Storm-grey eyes fixed on her before she could speak. "Miss Reyes. Sit."
She lowered herself into the chair. It swallowed her, skirt creeping up her thighs still flushed from the subway ride. He leaned in, fingers grazing hers as he took the paper. A spark jumped between their skin. His touch felt rough. Hers buzzed with heat. "Bronx girl in these heights. You clean?"
"Spotless, sir." Her voice held steady. Yet her pulse raced lower, throbbing deep in her core.
The interview stretched on. He asked about hours, silence, and flexibility. His gaze lingered on her lips when she said the last word. Warmth gathered between her legs, unbidden. He rose and circled her. His hand brushed her shoulder as if he claimed the space itself. "Start tomorrow. The maid's quarters are yours."
The elevator descent dragged. In the small staff room, a single bulb glowed over a narrow bed. She stripped quickly. The uniform fell in a heap. Her fingers sought her clit, already plump and wet from his stare alone. She traced slow circles and pictured that hand at her throat.
"Alexander." The name slipped out on a breath. Her hips lifted. Slickness coated her thighs and dripped onto the thin sheets. She pushed two fingers inside. Her walls gripped tight. Her thumb pressed hard on the sensitive nub until her spine bowed from the mattress. A ragged moan escaped, his name torn raw. The climax crashed through her. Her pussy clenched in waves. Hot spurts soaked the fabric beneath.
She collapsed, chest heaving. City glow flickered through the narrow window slit. Tomorrow she would polish his world. Tonight she ruled the ruin she had made of her bed.
He had not touched her yet. Still, his scent clung to her memory, musky and commanding. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. The damp spot cooled against her cheek. Another shiver ran through her, aftershock or promise. She bit the fabric to muffle the next whimper.
Upstairs, the family slept or pretended to. Alexander poured a nightcap in his study. The resume lay open under the lamp. His thumb traced the ink of her name. A slow smile curved his mouth. Victoria turned in silk sheets, dreaming of fresh canvas and softer flesh. Julian hunched over code in the dark, headphones blocking the world.
Elena rose at last. She peeled the ruined sheet free and balled it for the wash. Cool air kissed her bare skin. Nipples peaked tight. She slipped into an old tank and shorts, fabric clinging to the evidence of her release. Sleep would come slowly. When it did, dreams stitched his grey eyes to her open thighs.
Morning light would find her uniformed again, apron crisp. She would kneel to scrub floors that reflected her flushed face. He might watch from the doorway, coffee in hand. She would feel his gaze like fingers already inside her. The game began with dust and distance. It would end in sweat and surrender.
For now, she curled small in the narrow bed. One hand drifted back between her legs, lazy now. She teased the slick folds, denying the build. Tension coiled sweeter when held. She whispered into the dark, "Not yet." The city hummed beyond the walls, indifferent and alive.
Her breath evened. The penthouse settled into quiet. Somewhere a clock ticked toward dawn. Elena smiled against the pillow, tasting salt and want. The velvet threshold had opened. She stepped through alone, but the echo of footsteps followed.