The dress—damn that dress—made everything sharper. Reaching her was a struggle, every inch fought for, and the resistance only drove them both closer to madness.
David slid in a second finger, stretching her, and Sophie answered with a cry of sheer, unfiltered bliss. He felt everything—how her body gripped him, slick and hot, how the fabric of her dress constrained his movements, forcing them into a torturous, delicious slowness. At last he pushed in deeper, until all four fingers filled her. His palm pressed against her, sealing her completely.
In the mirrors he saw her multiplied—countless Sophies writhing, flushed cheeks and eyes drowning in pleasure, each reflection his alone.
Power surged through him. She was a doll pulled tight onto his hand, and he was the puppeteer. A hundred mirrors proved how skillfully he played her, how well he knew this body.
He thrust his right hand into her with relentless abandon, as if it were no longer a hand at all but an extension of raw desire. Sophie strained like a string drawn taut, her sounds veering from the high notes of a flute to the deep resonance of a double bass. She tore at his shirt, licked his ear, devoured his lips with feverish hunger. She melted, then came alive again, her moans sounding unearthly, as though pulled from another dimension.
With his other hand he caressed her spine, tracing every ridge, every trembling shiver, as goosebumps rose and fell beneath his touch.
Her trembling fingers reached the control panel. She slammed the stop button. The elevator jolted and froze. In the silence, their ragged breaths echoed. Her right breast burst free from the prison of her dress, and David's gaze locked on it, helpless.
Their faces filled the mirrors—hers, mouth parted, eyes half-lidded with ecstasy; his, taut with focus, sweat beading at his forehead. His fingers worked inside her, seeking those points that made her body twist, her hips clench and shudder in spasms.
When she climaxed, it was quiet but devastating. Her hips clamped down one last time, holding his fingers captive. Then her body softened, her eyes fell shut, and she sagged against his hand—suddenly light, fragile, utterly spent.
In the corner of the elevator, a shimmer appeared—a faint portal, pulsing like a heartbeat.
David pressed against Sophie, his breath heavy. The scent of her neck filled him—her skin mingled with something strange, metallic, a note of this alien world. He reached for his zipper, ready to keep going, but the chance slipped away. His release came sudden and violent, crashing over him like a small death—obliterating, unstoppable, absolute.