I take her tongue with mine, taste the groan that builds in her throat as she arches into me like her whole body’s been begging for this since we left the course.
She pulls back just enough to speak, eyes bright, lips kiss-bruised.
“I’ve been needing a good, hard fuck,” she breathes. “And you’re just pissed-off enough to do the job properly.”
That’s all it takes.
I spin her around and shove her toward the elevator wall, her palms slapping against the polished mirror surface as she braces herself.
Our reflection stares back at us—her skirt hiked high, my hand wrapped in her hair, jaw clenched tight with restraint I don’t plan to keep.
Her stance is wide. She knows exactly what she’s offering.
Her ass grinds back into my cock, and I growl low in my throat, tightening my grip in her hair until her head tilts just right.
My other hand slides beneath the hem of her tennis skirt.
Satin shorts. Useless.
I push past them, fingers slipping straight through her slick pussy.
“Fuck, Eve,” I mutter against her ear. “You’ve been wet for me since the car.”
She exhales—sharp and shaky—as I drag the wetness up, circle it slow around her clit.
“You thought about me fucking you the whole ride up, didn’t you?”
Another grind from her hips, a breathless yes caught between her teeth.
“You know I did.”
I plunge two fingers into her without warning, her moan echoing off the glass like music designed to undo me.
“Fuck, that’s it,” I growl, thrusting deeper. “Piccola.”
The doors are still closed. The penthouse is still floors away. Thirty seconds. Maybe fewer.
But it’s enough.
I yank her skirt down and let it pool at her ankles, giving her ass a single smack—tan, round, fuckable—but I’m on a mission.
My hands move with purpose. One slips between her thighs, parting her pussy lips with practiced ease. The other flicks over her clit—fast and precise—in a way I know will make her come fast.
She gasps, rising onto the tips of her tennis shoes, fingers splayed wide against the glass.
I watch her reflection.
Her eyes flutter shut, lips forming a soft, perfect “O.”
Her brows arch—flushed, desperate—as the orgasm barrels into her faster than she expected.
“Fuck—Dante—don’t stop,” she moans, voice breathy, ragged.
“Why the fuck would I?”
Her thighs tremble, her breath stuttering through the high. She rides it out, panting against the mirror, body humming with release.
And just as it fades?—
