Chapter 7: Adrian takes Jamie hard against the elevator mirrors, their frantic reflection showing Jamie's stretched hole struggling to accommodate Adrian's thick cock with each punishing downward thrust, his fingernails leaving streaks on the polished steel as the digital floor display counts down toward the lobby and prying eyes.
The click of the door was a gunshot that kept echoing in the ringing silence. Adrian stood frozen, his trousers bunched at his ankles, the chill of the air conditioning biting into his exposed skin. Jamie remained bent over the desk, his breath fogging the polished wood, his shoulders a rigid line of tension.
Slowly, Jamie pushed himself up. He didn’t look at Adrian. He pulled his jeans and briefs up with methodical, jerky movements, his back turned. The evidence of what they’d done was a slick, pearlescent streak on the dark mahogany. A stain.
“Jamie—” Adrian’s voice was a rasp, useless.
“Don’t.” Jamie zipped his jeans, his fingers fumbling. “Just… don’t say anything.”
He turned. His face was flushed, his lips swollen, but his eyes were flat. Hollow. “She saw. She saw everything.”
A cold, professional clarity began to override the panic in Adrian’s veins. It was a familiar switch, the one that had saved him from bullies and boardrooms. Damage assessment. Containment. “She saw a married couple having sex in a private office,” he said, forcing his tone to level. He righted his own clothing, his movements becoming sharper, more controlled. “That’s all.”
“That’s all?” A bitter laugh escaped Jamie. “You know exactly what she saw, Adrian. She saw you fucking me like you hated me. She saw… performance art.” He spat the last words.
“It wasn’t a performance.” The protest was out before he could stop it, raw and too honest.
Jamie’s gaze finally locked onto his, searching. “Then what was it?”
Adrian had no answer that wouldn’t ruin them. He strode to his desk, snatched the intercom. “Martin. The car. Private garage. Now.” He released the button. “We’re leaving. Together.”
“I’m not going back to the penthouse with you.”
“You are.” Adrian’s voice brooked no argument. He grabbed his jacket, his mind already five steps ahead. Eleanor would be moving fast. Calls would be made. The conservative bloc on the board, the ones who’d always eyed his lifestyle with suspicion, would be galvanized. He needed Jamie by his side, a united front. The illusion had to be perfect now, more than ever.
They didn’t speak in the hallway. The walk to the private elevator was a silent, tense march. Adrian’s assistant, Maya, glanced up, her eyes widening slightly at their disheveled state, but she wisely said nothing. The corridor was a blur of sterile glass and recessed lighting.
The private elevator doors, panels of sleek, dark wood and brushed steel, slid open with a hushed whisper. They stepped inside. The world shrunk to a mirrored box, descending from the sky. Adrian pressed the button for the sub-level garage. The doors sealed.
The hum of descent filled the silence. In the mirrored wall, Adrian saw their reflections: himself, a portrait of sharp, ruined elegance; Jamie, a storm of tousled hair and wounded eyes, staring fixedly at the floor indicator.
The digital numbers ticked down. 50… 49… 48…
The tension was a live wire, snapping and sparking in the enclosed space. The memory of Jamie bent over his desk, the feel of him, the raw, claiming heat, crashed over Adrian again, this time mixed with the acrid taste of exposure. Eleanor’s satisfied face floated in his vision. She had taken something private, something that had felt terrifyingly real in the moment, and turned it into a weapon.
His control shattered.
In one violent motion, he spun Jamie around and shoved him face-first against the cool mirror. Jamie’s startled gasp fogged the glass. Adrian fisted a hand in his sun-streaked hair, yanking his head back. Their eyes met in the reflection—Adrian’s blazing with furious desperation, Jamie’s wide with shock.
“You wanted real?” Adrian growled, his mouth against Jamie’s ear. His other hand went to Jamie’s waistband, popping the button, yanking the zipper down, and hauling jeans and briefs to mid-thigh in a single, rough movement. “Here’s fucking real.”
Jamie was still exposed, slick from their earlier coupling. Adrian spit into his own palm, slicked his cock which was already hard again, a brutal, angry arousal. He didn’t prepare him. He didn’t care. He notched the head against Jamie’s loosened, glistening entrance and thrust.
It was a brutal, deep invasion. Jamie cried out, a raw sound that bounced off the mirrors, his forehead thudding against the glass. His hands splayed, palms flat against his own reflection, fingers scrambling for a hold that wasn’t there. Adrian sheathed himself to the root in one punishing stroke, the stretch intense, the heat enveloping him.
“She wanted proof?” Adrian snarled, pulling back and slamming in again, making the whole elevator seem to shudder. “Let her have it. Let them all have it.”
He set a relentless, pounding rhythm. Each thrust drove Jamie harder into the mirror, the impact jolting through them both. Adrian watched it all in the fractured reflection: the pain and dazed pleasure on Jamie’s face, the obscene joining of their bodies, his own hips pistoning with a savage grace. High in the corner, the small red eye of the security camera blinked, a silent witness.
“You feel that?” Adrian bit out, his breath hot on Jamie’s neck. “That’s how much I need you. That’s how fucking mine you are.”
Jamie’s answer was a broken moan. “Adrian—God—yes—”
“They think it’s a sham?” Adrian’s voice was a guttural rasp. He hooked an arm around Jamie’s chest, holding him upright, driving into him so deep it felt like possession. “They think I can fake this? The way your fucking hole grips me? The way you take me?”
He was losing himself in the friction, in the claiming. This was panic and fury and a terrifying, bottomless want, all forged into a single, physical act. He fucked Jamie with a raw, untamed urgency, the elevator humming its descent as a counterpoint to their ragged breaths and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin.
Jamie was hard again, his cock trapped between his stomach and the cold glass, leaking pre-come that smeared the mirror. Adrian reached around, taking him in a rough, tight fist, jerking him in time with his thrusts.
“Come for me,” Adrian commanded, his voice cracking. “Come on this mirror. Show yourself who you belong to.”
The filthy instruction, the relentless assault on his body, the sheer overwhelming ness of Adrian broke him. Jamie came with a choked, sobbing cry, his release striping the mirrored wall, his body clamping down in exquisite, rhythmic pulses around Adrian’s driving cock. The visual of it, the feel of it, tore Adrian’s own climax from him. He buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering as he emptied himself inside Jamie with a raw, wordless shout, his forehead dropping between Jamie’s shoulder blades.
They slumped against the mirror, both trembling, held up by the elevator wall and each other. The digital display read ‘G’.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, slowly syncing. The scent of sex and sweat hung heavy in the recycled air.
The doors didn’t open. Adrian had keyed it for privacy; it would wait for his command.
Slowly, carefully, Adrian pulled out. Jamie winced, a soft sound escaping him. Adrian gently pulled Jamie’s clothing back into place, his hands suddenly unsure. He turned Jamie around.
Jamie’s face was tear-streaked, but his eyes were clear. He looked wrecked, used, and yet something fragile and new hovered there. He reached up and touched Adrian’s cheek, a touch so tender it made Adrian’s chest ache.
“That,” Jamie whispered, his voice hoarse, “was the least convenient thing that has ever happened to me.”
A choked sound, half-laugh, half-sob, escaped Adrian. He leaned his forehead against Jamie’s, their breath mingling. The elevator was a silent, suspended confessional.
“The car is waiting,” Adrian murmured, not moving.
“I know.”
“She’s going to use this. She’s going to try to break the deal. To break us.”
Jamie’s fingers curled into the fabric of Adrian’s shirt. “Let her try.”
The words were simple. They were a vow.
Adrian took a deep, shuddering breath. He pressed the button. The elevator doors slid open to the cool, dim silence of the private garage. Martin stood by the open door of the Rolls, his face impassive.
Hand in hand, their clothes creased and their bodies marked by what had just transpired, they walked out of the mirrored box and into the war.