I hate Christmas, confined spaces and my ex-husband, so when the hotel elevator shuddered to a screechy halt between floors on Christmas Eve, I thanked my lucky stars the other passenger wasn’t my ex.
The man slouched against the mirrored wall of the elevator was his direct opposite. Younger than me, shoulders twice as broad as his hips, he exuded sexual confidence. A strand of hair above the dark brows glittered purple.
Great. A punk with purple hair. A punk whose square jaw made me want to taste it….
Don’t go there.
The punk unpeeled himself off the wall and pushed the alarm button. Nothing happened. He held his cell phone in the air, shook his head.
“Hi.” His grin flashed a row of teeth, pointy and white, a wolf’s grin. A vertical groove bisected his lower lip di Caprio style. “No signal in the middle of the ocean.”
“Sea,” I corrected mechanically. “We’re on an island in the Caribbean.”
Ok, I was being rude. I blamed the elevator. This one had mirrors and a plush seat, and its glass door overlooked the waves, but it was still a cage.
“My bad,” the punk said.
“That’s not even English.”
The punk showed me his cheek dimples. “I stand corrected. Please direct me to the nearest Save The Apostrophe meeting.”
A balloon of laughter rose to my throat. “I’m sorry. Small spaces bring out the witch in me.”
“Witches can be fun. Just like small spaces.” His raised eyebrow made my cheeks burn. “I’m Miles. I’ve seen you around.”
“Angelica,” I said. My hand tingled like live wire in his. “Nothing angelic about me tonight, though.”
“Hmm. Your hair’s angelic. Tinsel.”
Last Christmas flashed through my brain, corrosive like toxic sludge.
Too much cheating ex. Not enough air.
“Your skin’s lost all colour,” Miles said. “How can I help?”
“Talk,” I gasped. “Take... my mind... off it.”
Miles took a handful of my hair. “Angelica,” he said. I felt a gentle tug and his wolf mouth got closer. “You’re hot.” His breath tickled my neck. “Would you offer your throat to a wolf with the red roses?”
I gulped. That song always set me on fire and now it was playing in the background.
“Right.” His fingers brushed my nipples as he pulled back. “I believe it worked.”
It did. My nipples felt bare without his touch, my stomach knotted with sheer lust. I never had sex with anybody except my cheating ex-husband. What a waste.
I was on the wrong side of forty, Miles probably on the right side of thirty. Still, I owed it to myself. And it was Christmas.
“Would he offer me his mouth?” I quoted right back, as though there had been no interruption.
His thumb tilted my face up, his forefinger drew a slow teasing line around my lips. I drew it between my lips. Zing! Pure chemistry.
“Yes,” he said.
The buttons of his shirt pressed into my skin as he pulled me into the kiss. His tongue was firm. No hesitation, no questioning, all promise.
Spellbound by the sensation, I lost track of time. My whole body consisted of the electric tracks his fingers made on my neck, along my spine and under my buttocks.
I pushed my hips into his, gratified to feel his hard readiness. Without breaking the kiss, I slid my hand between us and pushed down his zipper.
“Hey,” he whispered into my throat. “You’d better be sure. No going back once you get me going.”
I stroked my fist upwards, caressed the silky tip, moved my mouth away a fraction.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the perverse witch inside me teased. “I can change my mind.”
He twisted out of my reach and my disappointment blasted into overdrive. His breath came uneven. “So can I.”
My heart beat faster. This was more than simple lust.
“Really?” I meant it as a challenge. Slowly, I slid my dress down to my waist, turned away to taunt him. The cold glass met my naked nipples with a hiss.
Five people lounged in the sunset below us, five people who could look up at any moment.
Miles found a sensitive spot on the side of my neck and licked into it, alternating the pressure between unyielding and ticklish. His thumb drew slow circles on my thong, maintaining that unbearable verge between arousing and satisfying.
I forgot about the people below.
“Time to change my mind,” Miles whispered. The breathtaking ride ceased. Started. Stopped again. The low half-crazed moan had to be mine. I wriggled. My boobs squeaked on the glass door.
“Miles, for crying out loud!”
“That’s from a different song. Same artist though.”
“Miles,” my voice grew begging. “You’ve proved your point. I won’t tease you again, I promise.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I will.”
For the next while, I growled and whimpered and sank deeper into delicious ecstasy without release. Miles was relentless in his stop-start routine.
When I felt yet another climax build up and dwindle, I lost all inhibitions. “Fuck me,” I groaned. “Now.”
“Oh,” he feigned surprise. “You should’ve said.”
The dress rode up my buttocks, the thong snapped.
He took me from behind, leaning on the see-through door. He took me on the plush seat. He was taking me on the carpet when the elevator shuddered in rhythm with my fulfilled body and shot upwards.
I tugged my dress into place. Miles zipped his bulging fly. When the door opened, I pushed through the awaiting crowd.
Miles followed me out. “If the elevator hadn’t broken down,” I said, “we would have remained strangers. Why mess with that?”
Miles shrugged. “But it did break down. Why mess with fate? Plus, we have… unfinished business. It may take weeks. Months, even.”
Blood rushed to my face, spread to my neck, heated the tips of my breasts. “You had me at but,” I quipped.
Miles cupped my bottom. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”
Author bio: Yvonne Walus is an award winning author of published books and novellas. You can find her on http://yewalus.kiwiwebhost.net.nz/