Chapter 2: The Elevator Ride Up
The lobby was a blur of marble and muted light. Megumi’s low heels clicked on the polished floor, a frantic, uneven rhythm next to the confident slap of Sukuna’s sneakers. He didn’t look at the opulent fountain or the people in suits sipping espresso in the lounge. His hand was a brand on the small of her back, steering her past the front desk with a dismissive nod from the concierge, who simply bowed slightly and looked away.
He’s done this before, a distant part of her mind noted. He walks through the world like he owns it, and everyone just agrees.
They turned a corner into a quieter hallway, the sounds of the lobby dying abruptly. A single elevator door, brushed bronze and polished to a soft gleam, awaited them. It was private, separate from the banks of elevators serving the main floors. Sukuna swiped the black keycard. A soft chime, and the doors slid open silently.
The interior was all dark wood and mirrors. The light was a dim, honeyed amber, recessed into the ceiling. It smelled of polish and something subtly spicy—his cologne, already marking the space.
The doors closed, sealing them in a silent, moving box. Her reflection stared back at her from three walls: a pale woman in a rumpled office blouse and skirt, her blue hair messy, eyes wide and scared. Next to her, he looked like a different species—lean, angled, perfectly at ease, watching her not in the mirror, but directly.
The elevator began to climb. A digital display above the door glowed with ascending numbers: 10… 15… 20…
The silence was immense. It was filled only with the faint, almost imperceptible hum of machinery and the sound of her own breathing, which was becoming shallower by the second. She watched the numbers change. 30… 35…
“You’re holding your breath,” he said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet.
She gasped, realizing he was right. The air left her lungs in a shaky rush.
“Don’t be scared of the quiet, Megumi. It’s just space. For us.”
He took a step toward her. She instinctively stepped back, her shoulders meeting the cool, mirrored wall. The touch made her jump. He closed the remaining distance, not touching her, but caging her in with his arms placed on the mirror on either side of her head. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. His eyes were endless in the low light.
“You’re really here,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. A trace of wonder softened the usual arrogant curve of his mouth. “You actually came.”
“I don’t know why I did,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Yes, you do.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Your body knows. It’s been screaming it all day, every time your nipples brushed that cheap cotton.” One hand left the mirror and came up to her collar. His fingers, surprisingly deft, began undoing the top button of her blouse. Then the next. “Since you forgot your bra this morning, you’ve been thinking about someone noticing. Hoping for it. Admit it.”
She shook her head, a feeble denial, but she didn’t stop him. The third button came undone, then the fourth. The parted fabric revealed the smooth, pale skin of her chest, the gentle swell of her small breasts, the dark, tight peaks of her nipples. The air in the elevator felt cool on her exposed skin.
He stared, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word reverent and crude all at once. “Look at you.”
His hands framed her waist, then slid up her sides, his thumbs brushing the outer curves of her breasts. A violent shiver wracked her. His touch was electric, overwhelming.
“Sukuna…” It was a protest without conviction.
“Shhh.” He lowered his head and kissed the hollow of her throat. His lips were soft, warm. The contact sent a jolt straight down her spine. He kissed a path upwards, along her jaw, achingly slow, until his mouth hovered over hers. His eyes held hers, a question and a command in one.
He didn’t wait for an answer.
His mouth captured hers, and the world fractured. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was deep, hungry, and claiming. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting her, and a low groan rumbled in his chest. One hand tangled in her short hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss, while the other slid down her hip, over the fabric of her skirt, and gripped her thigh.
She was frozen for a heartbeat, then a dam broke inside her. A small, desperate sound escaped her throat, and she kissed him back. Tentatively at first, then with a shocking rush of hunger. Her hands, which had been clenched at her sides, came up to clutch at the front of his shirt. The fabric was soft, expensive.
He broke the kiss, both of them panting. His crimson eyes were blazing. “Good,” he muttered, a feral grin touching his lips. “That’s so good, Megumi.”
His hand on her thigh pushed upwards, rucking her gray office skirt up around her hips. The cool air hit her bare legs. His fingertips traced the lace edge of her plain cotton panties, following the line from her hip, down across her belly, to the very top of her inner thigh. She jerked, a gasp tearing from her.
“So fucking wet already,” he whispered against her lips, his voice thick with satisfaction. His fingers dipped underneath the elastic, just a little, not quite touching her core, just tracing the dampness that had soaked through the fabric. “And for what? For me? For a kid who followed you to a fire escape?”
She was burning. Shame and desire warred, creating a turmoil that left her speechless. She could only nod, a tiny, frantic motion.
He kissed her again, harder this time, as his fingers pressed more firmly against the soaked cotton, applying a slow, circular pressure. Pleasure, sharp and unfamiliar, spiked through her. She moaned into his mouth, her knees buckling. He held her up easily, his body pinning her to the mirror.
The elevator chimed, a soft, melodic sound. 45.
He pulled his hand away, leaving her shuddering and exposed. He smoothed her skirt down with a terrifying casualness, as if he hadn’t just unraveled her. He began re-buttoning her blouse, his movements focused, almost clinical.
“We’re here,” he said, his voice rough. “I told you I’d take my time. The elevator… that was just a preview.”
The doors slid open onto a private foyer. A single door of dark, carved wood faced them. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows to the left, the city sprawled like a galaxy of fallen stars, smudged by the lingering rain on the glass.
He took her hand. His palm was warm, slightly damp. He didn’t look back as he led her out, the elevator doors sighing shut behind them.
The keycard clicked in the lock. He pushed the door open and guided her inside, then closed it behind them with a definitive, soft thud.
The suite was vast, silent, and warm. The soft lighting he’d promised was everywhere—lamps with linen shades, indirect glows from under cabinets, the ambient light of the city itself painting the room in shades of indigo and silver. The air smelled like lilies; a massive arrangement sat on a low table near the windows. The furniture was minimalist, plush, obscenely expensive. A fire flickered in a gas fireplace, its light dancing on the polished concrete floor.
Megumi stood just inside the door, feeling more out of place than ever. This wasn’t her world. This was a setting for a different kind of person, a confident, beautiful person who belonged in sleek silk, not in rumpled office cotton.
Sukuna watched her take it in. He tossed the keycard onto a side table and shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. He kicked off his sneakers.
“You can let go,” he said softly. “No one’s here. No Tanaka. No spreadsheets. No bus schedule. Just this.”
He walked to the center of the room, near the enormous bed piled with pillows and a duvet that looked like a cloud. He sat on the edge of it, the mattress dipping under his weight. He held out a hand to her.
“Come here.”
It wasn’t a request. But it wasn’t a harsh demand, either. It was an invitation, loaded with every terrifying promise he’d made on the fire escape.
She forced her feet to move. One step. Then another. The plush carpet muffled her footsteps. She stopped a few feet from him, her arms wrapped around herself again.
He didn’t pull her down. He just looked up at her, his gaze traveling over her body with a focused intensity that was more unsettling than the quick grope in the elevator.
“Take off your blouse.”
Her breath caught. She shook her head slightly.
“Megumi.” His voice was patient, but edged with steel. “You let me touch you. You kissed me back. The blouse comes off. Now.”
Her fingers felt numb, clumsy. She fumbled with the buttons he’d re-fastened, her cheeks blazing. Finally, the last one slipped free. She hesitated, then let the garment slide off her shoulders. It whispered to the floor at her feet.
She stood before him in her skirt and her simple, damp panties. Her arms came up to cross over her chest, hiding herself.
“No.” The single word was absolute. “Hands at your sides.”
A tear, hot and sudden, escaped the corner of her eye. She was laid bare, not just physically. Every insecurity, every moment of feeling unseen and undesirable, was concentrated in this room, under his relentless gaze. Slowly, trembling, she lowered her arms.
He just looked. His eyes darkened as they travelled over the small, pale curves of her breasts, the tight, rosy nipples pebbled from nerves and the cool air. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.
“You have no idea,” he said finally, his voice husky. “You look at these and see something missing. I look at them…” He reached out, but stopped just short of touching her. “…and I see perfection. Something that fits in my hand, that I can take all of into my mouth. Something that makes you gasp when I flick my tongue right… here.”
He did touch her then, just the very tip of his index finger, brushing over one nipple. The sensation was so acute, so shocking, that a punched-out little cry left her lips. Her knees gave way. She didn’t fall; she just sank to the floor in front of him, kneeling on the carpet.
He smiled, a real smile that touched his eyes. “There you go.”
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. He was still higher than her, looking down. “The skirt too. And the panties. I want to see all of you.”
This time, the obedience came easier, driven by a desperate need to get through the exposure, to reach whatever was on the other side of it. She stood on shaky legs, unzipped the side of her skirt, and let it pool around her ankles. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties, took a shuddering breath, and pushed them down, stepping out of the small pile of clothing.
She was naked. In a penthouse suite. With an eighteen-year-old boy who had stalked her for weeks.
She felt herself trying to shrink, to become invisible.
“Look at me, Megumi.”
She forced her eyes up to his.
His gaze was a physical caress, sweeping from her face, down her throat, over her small breasts, her flat stomach, the thatch of dark hair between her slender thighs, all the way down to her feet and back up again. His expression was one of ravenous appreciation, utterly devoid of the pity or disappointment she’d always feared.
“You’re beautiful,” he stated, simple and absolute. “Every shy, quiet inch of you.”
He reached for her then, his hands settling on her hips. He pulled her gently forward, until she was standing between his spread knees. He turned his head and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the skin just beside her navel. She trembled.
“You’re in control,” he murmured against her skin, his breath hot. “Remember? I promised. This is your first time. You set the pace.”
He leaned back, lying down on the bed fully, propping himself up on his elbows. He was still fully dressed in his t-shirt and jeans, a stark contrast to her utter nakedness. He looked at her, then patted the space on the bed next to him. “Lie down. Here. With me.”
She climbed onto the massive bed, the duvet soft and cool beneath her skin. She lay on her side, facing him, curled slightly. He rolled onto his side to face her, closing the small distance. He didn’t immediately grab her. He just looked, his eyes tracing the lines of her face.
“Hi,” he said, his tone shifting, becoming almost light.
The absurd normalcy of it shocked a weak laugh from her. “Hi.”
“You okay?”
She thought about it. Her heart was still racing. She was naked. She was terrified. But she wasn’t running. “I think so.”
“Good.” He reached out and tucked a strand of her blue hair behind her ear. His touch was startlingly tender. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Ever. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a rapist.”
The bluntness of the word made her flinch, but also, perversely, it anchored her. He was naming the fear, drawing a line around it.
“I want…” she started, then faltered.
“Tell me.”
“I want to not think. Just for a little while. I’m so tired of thinking.”
His smile returned, edged with that familiar predator’s gleam. “That I can do.”
He closed the last inch and kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, giving her a chance to follow his lead. His hand came up to cradle her breast, his thumb stroking over her nipple in a rhythm that matched the movement of his tongue. The dual sensation was dizzying. Her body arched into his touch of its own volition.
He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down her neck, to her collarbone, lower. He took his time, worshipping every centimeter with his mouth and tongue, until he finally, finally took one peaked nipple into the warm, wet heat of his mouth.
She cried out, her back bowing off the bed. The sensation was beyond anything she had imagined—sharp, pulling, radiating through her entire body, settling as a throbbing ache between her legs. He suckled gently, then with more pressure, his tongue flicking and swirling. His free hand roamed her side, her hip, her thigh, learning her.
“Sukuna,” she gasped, her fingers tangling in his pink hair. She wasn’t pulling him away. She was holding him there.
He switched to her other breast, giving it the same devoted, thorough attention. She was mewling now, small, desperate sounds she didn’t recognize as her own. The coiled tension from the day, from her life, was being drawn out through this single, shocking point of pleasure.
He released her breast with a soft, wet pop and kissed his way down her quivering stomach. He nipped gently at the skin over her hipbone, making her jump. His hands hooked under her knees.
“I’m going to taste you now,” he said, his voice muffled against her inner thigh. His breath was so close to where she throbbed. “Is that okay?”
She couldn’t speak. She could only nod, her head thrashing against the pillow.
He pushed her legs apart, gently but insistently. He settled between them, his shoulders holding her thighs open. She was exposed utterly, completely vulnerable. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself.
The first touch of his tongue was a flat, slow lick from bottom to top.
Her eyes flew open. A shattered sound tore from her throat. It was too much. It was not enough. It was everything.
He did it again, slower, more deliberate, savoring her. “Fuck, you taste perfect,” he groaned, the vibration against her most sensitive flesh making her hips jerk. “All for me. This is all for me.”
He began to feast in earnest. There was no fumbling, no hesitation. He used his tongue and lips with a practiced, relentless precision that spoke of a vast, amoral experience, but his focus was entirely, devastatingly on her. He explored every fold, circled her clit with teasing flicks, then sucked it gently into his mouth.
The world dissolved into sensation. The flickering firelight, the distant city glow, the scent of lilies and sex—it all blurred into a haze of mounting, incomprehensible pleasure. She was sobbing, her hands fisted in the duvet, her hips lifting off the bed to meet his mouth. The shy, quiet office worker was gone. In her place was a raw, wanting thing, consumed by a fire he had lit.
“That’s it,” he urged, lifting his head for a moment. His mouth was glistening. His eyes were black with want. “Don’t hold back. Give it to me. Come on my face, Megumi. Let me feel you lose it.”
The crude, beautiful permission shattered the last of her control. The coil inside her, wound tight for thirty-two years, snapped.
Pleasure detonated, white-hot and all-consuming. It ripped through her in wave after wave, tearing a raw, screaming cry from her lungs. She bucked against his mouth, her vision whiting out, completely at the mercy of the convulsions racking her body.
He didn’t stop, drawing out every last shudder, every pulse, until she collapsed back onto the bed, boneless and gasping, tears streaming down her temples into her hair.
He finally lifted his head, crawling up her body. He looked down at her ruined, tear-streaked face, her glazed eyes, her parted lips. His own face was flushed, his expression one of awe and pure, male satisfaction.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact.
“See?” he whispered, lowering himself to kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue. “You’re not quiet at all.”