7. Jordan
JORDAN
The lobby spreads out in cool marble and cathedral silence. This late, it's just the night doorman behind his curved desk—blue screen glow on his face, earbuds in—and a couple of security guards stationed outside the glass doors, barely visible through the tinted panes.
The doorman glances up as we pass, sees me, nods once. I nod back. Professional acknowledgment. Nothing more.
Jessica walks beside me in that black dress—the one that's been testing my self-control for the last three hours—and her heels strike the polished floor with a sharp, rhythmic click that echoes off the high ceiling.
Each step lands like a punctuation mark I can feel in my chest. The sound follows us across the empty space, bouncing between marble columns, and I'm aware of every inch of her body moving next to mine.
The fabric shifts with her hips. The neckline cuts low enough that I've spent half the night forcing my eyes up.
Her hand brushes mine. Not an accident. Deliberate.
The same game she's been playing since we sat down at the restaurant—her ankle sliding up my calf under the table, that smirk when she asked if I'd punish her for breaking my rules, the way she looked at me when I told her she was mine like she wanted me to prove it right there in front of the wine list and the ambient lighting.
I'm going to prove it.
The elevator doors slide open with a muted chime.
Private car. Keyed access only—my floor, no stops, no one else uses this.
The interior is small and unforgiving: brushed steel panels, mirrored walls on three sides that reflect us back from every angle, overhead LED light that's bright enough to see everything clearly. No shadows. No privacy from ourselves.
She steps in first. I follow, my body filling the remaining space. The doors glide shut with a soft pneumatic hiss, sealing us in.
The elevator begins its climb. Forty seconds to my floor. The mechanism hums—a low, steady vibration I can feel through the soles of my shoes, through the air itself.
The ascent is smooth, but I'm aware of the motion, the upward pull, the floors dropping away beneath us.
Jessica leans back against the mirrored wall opposite me.
Casual. Too casual. She shifts her weight onto one hip, and the dress—already fitted, already a problem—rides up just enough that I see the curve of her thigh, the pale skin above her knee, the shadow where the fabric ends.
Then she looks at me from under her lashes, head tilted slightly, and smiles.
That smile. The one that says guess we'll find out.
My hand slams into the stop button—hard, deliberate, the impact loud in the enclosed space.
The elevator lurches. A mechanical groan, then nothing. We halt between floors. The steady hum dies, leaving only the faint electrical buzz of the overhead lights.
The sudden silence is so complete I can hear the whisper of fabric when she shifts, the catch in her breathing, the blood pounding in my own ears.
The mirrored walls throw our reflections back at us from every angle. Her. Me. The space that's barely a foot wide between us, crackling with everything we've been holding back.
"You've been teasing me all night."
My voice comes out flat. Controlled. The kind of calm that belongs to a man who's done waiting, who's spent two hours watching her push every button she could find and is now deciding exactly how she's going to pay for it.
Her eyes widen—just a fraction, just enough that I see the moment the reality hits her. We're stopped. Alone. No interruptions, no escape, no tables or waiters or city lights to hide behind.
Then the surprise melts away and that smirk creeps back onto her lips, slow and deliberate, like she knew this was coming and she's been waiting for it.
"Maybe."
One word. Soft, teasing, daring me to do something about it.
I cross the space between us in two steps. My hands slam against the mirrored wall on either side of her head, caging her in.
The sound echoes—sharp, final. She doesn't flinch. She tilts her chin up instead, meets my eyes straight on, and I see the pulse kick hard in her throat, hammering against the pale skin there. Fast. Nervous. Excited.
"You spent the whole dinner pushing me." I lean in, my mouth near her ear, close enough that my breath stirs the loose strands of strawberry blonde hair at her temple.
Close enough to smell the faint sweetness of her shampoo mixed with the warmth of her skin.
"Every look. Every touch under that table.
Every time you bit your lip or shifted in your seat or gave me that little smile like you were daring me to react. "
Her chest rises and falls faster now. Shallow breaths. I can feel the heat radiating off her body, the tension coiling tight in the narrow space between us. She's not touching me, but I feel her everywhere—the awareness is physical, magnetic, pulling at every nerve ending I have.
"That little smirk when you asked if I was going to punish you." My voice drops lower, rough at the edges. "You liked that, didn't you? Liked seeing if you could make me lose it in front of all those people."
Her lips part. She swallows hard, the movement visible, and I track it with my eyes—the flex of her throat, the way her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip.
She's nervous. She's also turned on. I can see it in the flush spreading across her collarbone, the way her hands flex at her sides like she doesn't know whether to push me away or pull me closer.
"Did you think I'd let that slide, baby girl?"
The endearment lands like a claim. Her pupils dilate. Her breathing stutters.
She opens her mouth. Closes it again. No sarcasm. No comeback. For the first time all night, Jessica Hamilton has nothing to say.
"That's what I thought."
The kiss is brutal, teeth clashing, tongues sliding hot and wet against each other in a mess of raw need that has my blood pounding straight to my cock. Her mouth tastes like the expensive wine from dinner and something sweeter underneath—pure Jessica, sharp and addictive.
My fingers twist tighter in her strawberry-blonde hair, yanking her head back so I can devour her deeper, and the needy moan that vibrates from her throat against my lips makes my balls draw up tight.
Fuck, that sound. It’s been echoing in my skull since she smirked at me across the restaurant table like she wanted me to snap.
I grip her ass with both hands—those small, firm cheeks that fit perfectly in my scarred palms—and lift.
She’s light, but the way her legs snap around my waist, heels of those fuck-me shoes digging hard into the base of my spine, sends a bolt of pure lust through me.
I slam her back against the cool steel wall of the elevator.
The impact jars through both of us. Her dress bunches instantly around her hips, the soft, expensive fabric I bought her now nothing but a wrinkled belt of silk. My palm shoves it higher, fingers digging into bare thigh, then higher still until I brush the soaked lace of her panties.
Heat pulses against my knuckles. She’s drenched already, her arousal slick and scalding even through the fabric.
“You know what you are?” The words scrape out of me, low and guttural, dragged from somewhere primal I don’t bother controlling anymore.
I break the kiss just enough to stare down at her—cheeks flushed deep pink, blue eyes blown black with lust, lips red and swollen from my mouth.
She looks wrecked. She looks perfect. “You’re my stepdaughter, wearing the dress I put on your body, riding my elevator like a desperate little slut who’s been aching for my cock since the second we left that table. ”
Her breath catches hard, a sharp inhale that makes her small tits strain against the neckline. Those pupils flare even wider, swallowing the blue until there’s almost nothing left. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
If anything, her hips roll against me, seeking friction like she can’t help it.
“Your mother called me to check on you,” I rasp, dragging the rough pad of my thumb over her plump lower lip, pressing it down until her teeth graze my skin.
The wrongness of it only makes my cock throb harder against her core.
“And now look at you—legs spread for your stepfather, pussy dripping down your thighs in my damn building.”
“Jordan—” Her voice cracks, half plea, half warning, but there’s no fight in it. Only hunger.
“Does it feel wrong, baby girl?” I grind my hips forward, letting her feel every thick, heavy inch of me trapped behind my zipper, the rigid length dragging right against her clit through the useless lace.
The pressure makes her thighs clamp tighter around me.
“Because it doesn’t feel wrong to me. It feels like this tight little cunt was made for my cock.
Like you were born to take everything I give you. ”
The broken whimper that tears from her mouth snaps what little restraint I have left. I crush my lips to hers again, tongue fucking deep into her mouth while my hand wedges between us.
The lace is fucking drenched—hot, slippery evidence of how badly she wants this.
My fingers hook into the delicate waistband, and with one sharp yank the fabric rips apart with a satisfying tear.
She gasps into the kiss, then actually laughs—breathless, shocked, a wild little sound that’s half delight and half what the fuck—and the vibration of it against my tongue makes me groan.
“You just?—”
“I’ll buy you more,” I growl against her lips, already shoving the shredded lace into my pocket like a trophy. The scent of her arousal is thick in the confined space now—musky, sweet, feminine—and it’s driving me out of my mind.
My belt buckle clinks loudly as I rip it open one-handed, the metallic sound echoing off the elevator walls. She watches every move, eyes locked on my fingers as I drag my zipper down and pull my cock free.