Between Floors
"The elevator stops between the 14th and 15th floors. He's trapped with a woman twice his age—thick, anxious, and increasingly desperate for distraction. Three hours is a long time to be stuck with someone you want."
The elevator lurched, then stopped.
I grabbed the handrail. The woman beside me grabbed my arm.
"What happened?" she asked.
The lights flickered, then stabilized. The floor indicator read 14—then 15—then nothing at all.
"I think we're stuck."
"Stuck?" Her grip on my arm tightened. "Oh god. Oh no. I'm claustrophobic. I can't—I can't be stuck—"
"Hey." I turned to face her. "It's okay. These things happen. They'll have us out in no time."
She was breathing too fast. Panic rising in her eyes.
"Look at me," I said. "What's your name?"
"Patricia." Her voice was thin. "Trish."
"I'm Tyler. Nice to meet you, Trish." I tried to sound calm. "We're going to be fine. Let's sit down, okay? Conserve energy."
We sat against the back wall. I pulled out my phone—no signal. I pressed the emergency button. A tinny voice said someone would be there soon.
Soon could mean anything.
Trish was maybe fifty.
Blonde hair, going silver at the temples. Blue eyes, currently wide with fear. A business suit that probably looked professional when she wasn't trembling.
And underneath the suit—I noticed because I couldn't help noticing—was a body that didn't belong in a corporate elevator.
Wide hips that stretched the pencil skirt. Heavy breasts straining her blouse. Thick thighs pressed together as she sat.
Not the time to notice. I noticed anyway.
"Talk to me," she said. "About anything. I need to focus on something else."
"What do you do?"
"Financial advisor. Twenty-three years." She laughed bitterly. "All that work, and I'm going to die in an elevator."
"You're not going to die."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that." I took her hand. Squeezed. "This building has backup systems. Maintenance is on the way. Worst case, we're here a few hours."
"A few hours?" More panic.
"Which will pass faster if we stay calm." I rubbed my thumb over her knuckles. "Tell me about your family."
She talked. About her husband—ex-husband now. About her kids, both in college. About being empty-nested and wondering what came next.
I talked too. About my job, my apartment, my aimless twenties.
An hour passed. Then two.
The emergency line said they were working on it. Could be another hour.
Trish started to spiral.
"I can't do this." She was hyperventilating now. "I can't—I need to get out—I need—"
"Trish." I grabbed her shoulders. "Look at me."
She did. Her eyes were wet, wild.
"You're safe. You're here with me. Nothing bad is happening."
"I can't breathe—"
"You can. In through your nose, out through your mouth." I demonstrated. "With me. In... out... in... out..."
She followed. Slowly, her breathing evened.
"Good. That's good." I cupped her face. Wiped a tear with my thumb. "You're doing great."
"I'm falling apart in front of a stranger."
"I don't feel like a stranger." And she didn't. Two hours of conversation had done something. Made a connection. "You're one of the strongest people I've met, Trish. You're just in a hard situation."
"You barely know me."
"I know you." I held her gaze. "I know you raised two kids while building a career. I know you gave twenty-three years to a man who didn't appreciate you. I know you're scared right now, but you're still fighting."
"How do you see all that?"
"Because I've been looking." I brushed hair from her face. "Really looking."
She kissed me.
I should have stopped it.
She was scared, vulnerable, not thinking clearly. I should have pulled back, been responsible.
Instead, I kissed her harder.
She moaned against my mouth. Her hands fisted in my shirt. I pulled her onto my lap, and she straddled me, her skirt riding up her thick thighs.
"This is crazy," she breathed.
"Completely."
"We're stuck in an elevator."
"I know."
"I'm old enough to be your mother."
"I don't care." I grabbed her hips. "Do you?"
She answered by grinding against me.
Her blouse came open—buttons scattering across the elevator floor. Her bra was beige, practical, straining to contain her breasts.
"I haven't done this in years," she said as I unhooked it. "Haven't felt desirable in—god, I don't know how long."
"You're desirable." I cupped her breasts—heavy, full, soft. "You're the most desirable woman I've ever seen."
"Liar."
"Let me prove it."
I kissed down her neck. Her chest. Took a nipple in my mouth. She gasped, arching into me.
"Tyler—"
"Shh." I switched to the other breast. "Let me show you."
She came twice before I was inside her.
Once from my mouth on her breasts while she ground against my thigh. Once from my fingers inside her, curling against the spot that made her scream.
"I need you," she panted. "Please—I need—"
I freed myself from my pants. Positioned her over me. She sank down slowly, her tight heat swallowing me inch by inch.
"Oh god," she moaned. "Oh fuck—"
She started to move. Rising and falling, her thick body bouncing in my lap. The elevator swayed with our rhythm.
"Yes—yes—" She threw her head back. "Don't stop—don't ever stop—"
I grabbed her hips. Thrust up into her. Fucked her like the elevator might start moving any second.
She came screaming. I came inside her, filling her.
We collapsed together against the wall.
The elevator started moving five minutes later.
We scrambled to dress—her missing buttons, my untucked shirt, both of us reeking of sex. By the time the doors opened, we looked almost presentable.
Almost.
A maintenance worker stood outside. "Everyone okay?"
"Fine," Trish said, her voice hoarse. "Just fine."
We walked out together. She paused at the lobby doors.
"I don't know how to—"
"Don't." I took out my phone. "Give me your number."
"Tyler—"
"I'm not leaving this as a one-time thing." I held her gaze. "Unless that's what you want."
She was quiet. Then she took my phone and typed in her number.
"Call me," she said. "Tonight."
"I will."
She walked away. I watched her go—thick hips swaying, ass moving under her skirt.
Best elevator malfunction of my life.
I called her that night.
We've been seeing each other for six months.
Her kids think she's "dating someone new." They don't know it's a man younger than them.
We don't care.
Some connections don't follow rules. They happen between floors, in spaces where you're not supposed to exist.
That's where we found each other.
That's where we stay.