Clara pov
The lift doors closed with that familiar soft chime, sealing Clara and Mike inside the mirrored capsule. The numbers began ticking down—28… 27…—and for those first few seconds, everything felt ordinary. Professional distance. Controlled breathing. Clara kept her arms lightly crossed, posture straight, trying to ignore how the confined space amplified every small sound: the hum of the motor, Mike's steady breathing beside her, the faint rustle of his jacket when he shifted his weight.
She stole a sideways glance. He was looking forward, relaxed, hands loose at his sides. Then the lift lurched.
A violent metallic screech ripped through the car. The floor dropped an inch, then jerked again—hard. Clara's balance failed instantly. Her heels skidded on the polished metal, and she pitched forward with a sharp gasp.
Straight into Mike.
Her body collided with his chest—solid, unyielding. One of his arms came up instinctively, wrapping around her waist to steady her, while his other hand shot out to brace against the wall. But in the chaos of the fall, his palm landed lower—cupping the full curve of her ass through the tight pencil skirt, fingers splaying wide in a grip that was equal parts reflexive and deliberate.
Time stretched.
Clara felt it all at once: the heat of his large hand burning through the thin fabric, the possessive way his fingers flexed once—almost involuntarily—squeezing the soft flesh beneath. The dark, violent throb of excitement that shot straight between her legs, unbidden and electric. Her nipples hardened against her bra in a single, traitorous instant. Her breath caught in a small, involuntary hitch, and for one dizzying second her hips pressed back against that hand before her mind screamed no.
Mike didn't move. Didn't pull away. His grip remained firm, steadying her even as the lift shuddered again, the emergency light snapping on in dull red.
"You alright?" His voice was low, rough around the edges, vibrating through his chest where her cheek was pressed.
Clara's heart hammered so hard she was sure he could feel it. She nodded against him—too quickly—then pushed back, trying to create space. His hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary before sliding up to her lower back, guiding her upright with careful control.
"Yeah… yeah, I'm fine," she managed, voice higher than normal. She smoothed her skirt with trembling fingers, cheeks burning. The spot where his palm had been felt branded—hot, tingling, alive in a way that made her thighs clench involuntarily.
The emergency bulb flickered. Mike pressed the call button again. Static. He tried the intercom. Nothing.
"Power glitch," he said calmly, as if nothing had happened. "Should come back any second."
Clara nodded mutely, staring at the floor numbers frozen between 26 and 27. She couldn't look at him. Couldn't risk seeing that knowing glint in his eyes. Her mind raced: He felt me react. He knows I got wet from one touch. God, what is wrong with me?
The silence thickened. She could smell his cologne again—dark, masculine, wrapping around her like smoke. Her pulse wouldn't slow. Every breath made her aware of her body: the dampness gathering between her legs, the way her panties clung now, the faint ache that begged for more pressure exactly where his hand had been.
She hated it. Hated how her body had betrayed her in seconds. Fin had never—never—made her feel this raw, this primal, with so little effort.
Mike finally spoke again, softer. "You're shaking."
"I'm just… startled," she lied. "The drop caught me off guard."
He didn't push. Just nodded once. "Happens."
The lights flickered back on. The lift hummed, then resumed its descent with a gentle lurch. Clara exhaled shakily as the doors opened on the lobby.
She stepped out first—too fast—heels clicking unevenly on the marble. Her legs felt unsteady, thighs slick with arousal she couldn't ignore. Mike followed a pace behind, briefcase in hand, expression unreadable.
"See you soon, Clara," he said casually, as if they'd only discussed the weather.
She managed a tight smile, not meeting his eyes. "Yeah. Thanks for… catching me."
He gave a small nod, that faint curve to his lips, saying he understood far more than her words.
Clara walked toward the main exit without looking back, arms wrapped around herself as if to hold everything in. The cool night air hit her face like a slap when she stepped outside, but it did nothing to cool the flush on her skin or the guilty heat still pulsing low in her belly.
He touched me. Just once. And I wanted more.
The thought made her stomach twist with shame. Fin's face flashed in her mind—his gentle smile, the way he always asked if she was okay, the careful way he touched her in bed like she might break.
She'd never cheated. Never even considered it.
But tonight, in thirty seconds of darkness, her body had answered for her.
She pulled her phone out, thumb hovering over Fin's name. She could text him. Tell him the lift malfunctioned. Tell him she was rattled.
Instead, she locked the screen and shoved it back in her purse.
She wouldn't tell him.
Not tonight.
Not ever, maybe.
Because admitting it—even just to herself—would mean facing the part of her that had arched back into Mike's hand instead of pulling away.
And that part was still awake, still hungry, still whispering that next time she might not resist at all.