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Her heels click on the floor as she swiftly enters the elevator.

She isn't in a hurry, not really, but her movements have been led by an unfamiliar kind of urgency lately, an antsiness that's connected to uneasiness and throws her off balance. She feels confused more than anything and yet she refuses to acknowledge the main reason behind it.

She uses her thumb to press the button that will get her to the ground floor, tapping her foot in slight impatience. Living on the ninth floor has its perks, but it has its flaws, too; one of them being this insufferable wait.

Suddenly, the small screen on the wall of the elevator flashes with a different number and her heart rate picks up in plain horror.

Five, it reads. She only knows one person on that floor who would be up and going so early in the morning. A long string of expletives echoes in her head and she moves to bump her fist against the button that reads zero again.

But her and the concept of luck never really got along. She finally curses out loud.

The elevator slows to a stop when it reaches the fifth floor and the man from 5C slips inside as well, relaxed as ever, clad in his usual running attire, making the hair on the nape of her neck bristle. In an attempt at keeping her composure, she averts her eyes.

"'Morning," he has the audacity to say. His voice is still deep and raspy from the lack of use, just like she remembers, and she has to fight the shudder threatening to run down her spine.

She only hums softly in response.

She feels his eyes on her as he sighs and, for the briefest of moments, she breaks and meets his gaze in the mirror. She doesn't look for long enough to decipher the meaning of it, so, instead, she leans her back against the wall.

"How's everything?"

She swallows a hollow, ironic laugh before it can rumble in her chest and clutches her bag tighter.

"Let's not do this," she answers.

"I've been trying to get a hold of you," he insists.

"And I've been trying to let my message come across. I'm done."

"I'm not," he growls. "You need to hear me out for once."

"Because you always get what you want, don't you? Is that it?" she sneers. All traces of hesitance vanish and melt into blazing anger, making her blood boil. She's close, fuming against the collar of his shirt before she knows it, his proximity doing nothing but exasperate her.

His brows furrow and creases form on his forehead when his hand sneaks behind his back. The sound of the lift ceases out of the blue and realization dawns on her a couple of seconds too late.

"What did you do?" she demands. She cranes her head and, soon enough, there it is. The stop button is red and glowing. She glares at him, pushing the heels of her palms against his thorax, momentarily pleased by the surprise on his face. He stumbles backwards.

He's better prepared for the next blow and the one after that never comes, as his fingers lock persistently around her wrists. He leans in, bending just enough to breathe her in.

"We have to talk this out at some point," he says, his tone low and quiet, as though he longs for only her to hear it.

She violently breaks out of his grasp, scoffing. "Fuck you."

"You did," he snaps. "And then you left without an explanation."

"You don't need an explanation," she counters hotly. "You know why."

"I know what other people say," he confirms. "What I don't get is what you choose to believe. That's what matters."

"Cut it out. I'm late." She slides the zipper of her bag open, grabbing her phone, and suppresses the urge to chew on the nails of her free hand. She points to the screen for emphasis.

He rolls his eyes. "You're always too early. Too uptight when you're trying to be. If I'm the one you intend on fooling, you'll fail. You already are."

"Your arrogance is something else," she mutters. There's something in the pit of her stomach, a sick feeling associated with him, something she never truly experienced before. Not when she was taken aback by the rumors, not when she was hurt, not when she was filled with self-loathing and rage.

She makes an effort to find a way around him, but he moves faster, blocking her way to the stop button. He shakes his head, holding up a finger that makes her halt.

She folds her arms over her chest. "Let me make something clear," she says. "I am not in the mood to talk or have the time for it. If chatting was what you had in mind, forget it."

"So don't talk," he retorts. "We'll just stay here, in silence until you make up your mind…" A smirk of delectation forms in the side of his mouth. "Don't worry, darling, I can wait here all day…"

"Well I don't have all day!" she hisses and charges forward in an attempt to reach the coveted small red button, one that ends in a miserable fail. He is way too quick to be fooled and way too cunning to be deceived by such a cheap trick. Grabbing both of her arms and pushing her backwards, he forces her to retreat in the opposite wall of the elevator, far, far away from her original target.

"Easy now, Rambo! Where do you think you're going?" he whispers in her ear, and his breath, as ticklish as ever, sends chills down her spine, bringing back vivid images of all the times they spent together in that bedroom, making her sick.

Not again. Never again.

Her voice betrays her repulsion: "I hate you."

"I know," he rasps and, with his warm tongue, traces the channels of her ear flap, starting from the top. With his sturdy hands, he neutralizes any efforts she tries to make to escape his strong grip.

It loosens only as she releases an irritating breath of fatigue, one that surely gives him the impression she's putty in his hands all over again.

"I've been thoroughly enjoying your company as well," he adds, placing an open-mouthed kiss right below her pulse point.

Something snaps inside of her then, awakening a series of violent voices, urges she hasn't dared to ever suppress. Her thirst for control shakes her out of her paralyzed state, setting her mind to overdrive.

"I thought you said no talking," she says authoritatively.

"Works fine by me," he mutters in the crook of her neck. The all too familiar heat burns in the pit of her belly, swiftly travelling lower, setting a wildfire in its wake.

With a sharp movement, she turns her shoulder and reaches behind her, feeling him through his trousers, satisfied by the effect she has on him. He reciprocates, grinding against her demanding palm.

She makes a move to tease him, to withdraw and take from him what he seems to want the most, but her watch catches in the cord of his pants as she pulls away and his low grunt turns into an amused chuckle.

"Eager, are we?"

She hushes him. "This is the last time," she warns.

"Do shut up," he mutters as he frees her watch from his trousers - a small, rough movement of awkwardness. His hand guides hers back to its former position, urging her to massage once more.

Feeling like she is in control of the situation again, she doesn't fight back, her gentle strokes enhancing his arousal even more. She's marching at full speed down the wrong road again, she knows.

And like those other times, she would regret this one too.

"Like it?" she lisps lustily. All qualms she once had are now gone with the wind.

To recompense, he sucks the skin on her nape with slow languid caresses of his mouth, making her shudder under his excruciating touch. Her rich perfume filling his nostrils, the light saltiness of her almost nonexistent sweat, her ragged breathing - all dull his senses and, like a good drug, entangle him into a dream world.

He is an addicted man.

She leaves him no room for a simple, affirmative or even a clever retort – an answer she is positive he would effortlessly provide anytime. Instead, she guides his hand right above where she's burning for him, impelling him to fondle her lower abdomen over her shirt.

She regains her consciousness for long enough to realize his fingers have been tampering with the buttons of her top for the past few moments.

"Clothes on," she protests confidently. There is no place for further vulnerability within these four walls that are already choking her.

If he has something to say about what her statement would mean literally, he swallows it along with his heavy inhalations. With a purposefully harsh kiss on the side of her jawline and a mean grip on her waist, he sneaks a knee between both of hers.

Her legs wobble at the contact and move with his in a furious dance. They stumble, just enough to hold onto one another tighter, and the small of her back meets a cool, horizontal metal bar. The change in temperature soothes the flickering flames within her only briefly, digging into her spine until she hisses at the discomfort.

"Turn around," he prompts. She chances a doubtful look at him, before she complies, trusting that their interests are mutual for once. Her hands curl around the metal bar, clinging to it as she meets her reflection in the mirror, deliberately fixating on the stray strand of hair on her cheek.

She can sense his insistent stare on her, and yet she refuses to make eye contact as he bends down behind her and hikes up her skirt.

The pressure he suppressed for so long in his lower abdomen now burns his intestines away, making him more irritated than impatient. With hands that give away his exceptional skill in those kinds of things, he pulls down her black tights and panties, then proceeds to loosen the elastic band of his pants. His movements gradually become quick, edgy; it's hard to conceal his lust – one could say that the beads of sweat on his forehead are its tangible proof.

"Wait." Her voice is calmer now, a voice of a woman in full control, like she's always been.

"Having regrets?"

"No, just making sure you won't be having any."

Her purse opens and closes, two small clicks, barely audible. Her arm extends lithely and now a condom wobbles between her index and middle finger, a few centimeters away from his eyes, making it hard for them to focus. He grabs it in haste and rips the wrapping. The smell of rubber reaches his nostrils, bringing back times of pleasure. The small white circle slips unto him with ease.

It takes no more than a few seconds to part her legs and find his way into her. A sigh of relief escapes his thin lips. Finally.

A sharp exhalation slides through her lips as well, briefly fogging up the glass of the mirror before her. Every first time she feels him inside her is always a favorite, quenching the unbearable thirst for some satisfying moments only to build up her scorching desire more with the next thrust and the next and the one after that.

As she makes an instinctive move backwards to give him a more accessible angle, his encouraging hands palm the curves of her ass, squeezing, and his fingers shamelessly dip in the sensitive flesh there until she captures a throaty moan in her mouth.

The whitish imprints on her skin turn red soon enough, reaffirming he, at least, has a physical effect on her. His hands roam hurriedly over her hips, gathering fistfuls of her skirt's fabric vengefully.

Suddenly, it seems that every last of his problems is nonexistent.

He thrusts. He thrusts hard. And with each and every one of his wild strokes, he feels his anger taking control of his being, blinding any sort of common sense that had remained into him. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to make her feel, comprehend his own suffering.

He has to make her understand.

A low-pitched growl echoes in the elevator as he grabs her waist and malevolently digs his cut-short fingernails into her thin white, silk shirt. It's the only perfect piece of her he can destroy, albeit temporary.

She was the one who abandoned him. She was the one that made it difficult for him. She was the one who disappeared from his life for no reason.

Who does she think she is? Playing all high and mighty when it is in her best interest, but now sits obediently, taking advantage of him once again. Arrogant and pretentious and really fucking selfish, that's what she is. She knows no pain.

He will make her understand whether she wants it or not. She will feel pain.

His arm curls around her stomach, all the while tightening, suffocating, like a vine. His elbow nudges her side as he pins her against him, keeping her in place.

He pushes in hard, this time with an inhuman sound that deranges every last trace of peace and fervor in her, leaving nothing but blind fury.

It's not his possessiveness or his impression of being entitled to make her speak and manhandle her that urges her to lose it. It's not the way he repeatedly uses her – the way he uses her right at this instant – either. It's the heat radiating off him, the way his skin insatiably glides against her whilst they move frantically, his breath fanning her cheek, the heady smell of perspiration and just him.

It's her name being cried out like a forbidden curse, an abominable sin.

She slaps her open palms against the mirror to avoid her forehead's collision with it, blinking as it quakes. She grits her teeth to refrain from tearing him apart with her mouth, the voice that's a slave of her soul's darkest corner.

Even now she's his for the taking, her muscles fluttering around him, pathetically working against her and begging for more, she has to be better. She has to take one step forward before him and leave him behind, she has to pretend that, no matter what, she'll always be strong enough to bypass his unfeeling blows.

His teeth graze her jaw then, undoubtedly harder than necessary, and he swipes the tip of his tongue over the spot mockingly, as if to spell out how much he loathes her.

She loathes him, too.

His eyelids are half-closed when she wordlessly dares him to really look at her. For a moment, she can act like the ferocity in her gaze throws him off balance, like the power is truly in her hands.

I despise you, screams out every fiber of her being and she allows herself the luxury to believe it.

"Look at me," she finally groans, infuriated by the way her voice breaks at the end. She reiterates her request, slow and clear until she reclaims her self-discipline and he obeys.

He pounds into her fast, brutally scratching at her clothed hipbones as he hits a sweet spot again and again, watching her watch him all the while, pulling and pushing with everything he has. The pleasantness mixes with stinging that promises her a day of soreness and regret, and she feels closer to the edge with every passing second.

Her vision is blurring now, eyes unseeing, but her senses scream out for her to be on the very top and explode with all her might at once. She pants, her breath losing its rhythm right after her hips do, the circular motion they were once performing giving way to something rough and rampant.

His hand blankets hers over the mirror, grabbing, clawing, anchoring her on the spot.

He reaches his climax as he breathes out in delicious agony against the damp curve of her bare neck, tongue burning for one last taste as he pulsates inside her narrowing walls, and paralyzing relief overcomes him in hot waves. The haze surrounding him starts to disappear sooner than what he's prepared for.

His trembling recedes steadily, but hers lingers like always. It's as though her body insists on having the last say, just like she does. She owns it.

What she doesn't own is him.

He withdraws without a warning, taking the mildest of pleasures from her stunned gasp, hastily pulling the condom off his subsiding hardness. He brings the elastic band of his pants up to the level of his hipbones with a huff, using the remaining time to observe her make a fuss out of everything and nothing.

"Now I'm done."

His job here is finished. He got what he wanted after all - dignity is hard to find these days, but hedonic to take.

Now all that is left is a little question he has to resolve with himself; Why? Was it revenge? Did he perhaps try to give her one last chance to come back to him?

Who knows?

Her ruffled clothes, the meticulous ponytail that came loose as his fingers deliberately caught on it, her flushed face – all make her panic return in full force. She looks thoroughly fucked with all the glory of the cliché phrase, she notes whilst the pink hue travels down her collarbones and dips into the valley of her breasts.

And yet, letting him into her head, giving him that sickening satisfaction, is out of the question.

She straightens her posture after she picks up the pieces and erases all traces of him in the most possible way. She drapes her bag over her shoulder and rubs her thumb on the unexplainable smudge of lipstick on the corner of her mouth; he never kissed her.

Realization hits her like a ton of bricks. Her throat closes and she has to cough to expel the emotion from the back of it, swearing when wetness gathers in her eyes. Hateful words inundate her mind but, when she turns around to face him and opens her mouth, she comes up short.

With an unreadable expression, he presses the red button and the elevator continues its descent in silence, as if nothing ever happened.

On those short moments until they reach the ground floor, he can't but return to his old habit of observing her. The woman who was once full of color is now a black and white photograph of what he used to think of her. A shade of his former impression of her. Was she always slouching? He never noticed.

As soon as the telltale cling is heard and the doors part, they are both on the move, nearly bumping into one another in the process of exiting the enclosed, sultry space.

His step stalls. His now outstretched hand wordlessly motions for her to go first. This is certainly not some kind of competition anymore. You want to be first? Be my guest, his eyes tell her in silence.

She twists her head just enough for her gaze to pierce through him, even though the mist, repressing the urge to clutch her bag closer to her chest. A bob of her head follows; one of resigned acknowledgement, the nearest indication to a goodbye he will ever get from her.

"Have a nice day," she wheezes.

"Goodbye," he almost mumbles. But there's no one left for him to say it to.

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