Under Her Heel

Sarah is being a bitch again. I swear she hasn't heard a word I've said, but that's no surprise. I don't even know why I bothered calling her. She's been prattling on about some Louboutins she found on Fifth Avenue for the last two minutes. Probably the ones in the window of that creepy corner store I saw last week—the one with that pimply high school kid who couldn't stop drooling over me. If she had half a brain cell, she'd know those pumps were fake.

"S, are you even listening?" I cut her off, cradling my cell between my shoulder and ear as I round the corner to my building. My heels clack against the pavement, and I shift my shopping bags higher up my arm. A homeless man near the bushes looks up expectantly. With his filthy fucking hand out.

As if.

I scoff, giving him a wide berth. "Derek stood me up again," I steer Sarah back on track. "His mom apparently dragged him to Cindy's gallery opening. Can you believe it?"

Not like I hadn't spent hours arranging a night he wouldn't forget or anything, but whatever. I needed a good lay. So help me, I had planned on getting it, even if the idiot did need all the direction in the world. The guy is more fumbling hands than a Parkinson's patient. But I guess a fat bank account and a high social status make up for being useless in every other department.

"C-Cindy?" Sarah sniffs, and the embarrassment in her tone pleases me. That's right, bitch. We're talking about

my

problems. Pay attention. "You don't... A, you don't think he's... Well, you know..."

"Fucking her?" I finish for her. "Puh-lease,"

Some woman on the street covers her little boy's ears. She glares at me, as if I've corrupted her little angel. I walk on by. Her fault for eavesdropping.

"Like he would even

want

to touch someone like her." I continue. Not with someone like me around. I pause to admire my reflection in a shop window. The white sundress looks stark against my fresh tan, hugging my curves and flaring at my hips, the hem kissing the tops of my thighs. I twist to see the effect on my backside, and someone wolf-whistles across the street.

I do look impeccably hot. Derek's loss.

A part of me wants to teach him a lesson. Go fuck someone else. Right here. Right now. Make him regret ever turning me down. Not that I could find a worthy contender.

"No, his dad is just trying to land some deal with hers," I say. "I guess he's president of some uber-rich trading...something-or-other. I don't know. Doesn't matter. The point is, he bailed on me. Again."

I stand at the apartment door, clucking my tongue while the counter clerk takes his time looking up from his desk. He's so busy hunched over the surveillance camera feed that he doesn't even notice me. Like anyone would bother robbing this shithole. I swear, the place is awful. I can't believe Daddy didn't buy me a suite in the Central Park Tower like I'd asked. If he only knew the kinds of lowlifes I've had to deal with here...

The clerk sighs as soon as he pushes the door open. "...not my job," he grumbles beneath his breath.

"What was that?" I pull my Gucci shades down to give him the full effect of my stare.

"I said, that must be really tough," Sarah says.

"Not you," I snap at her. "You. Grease boy. Do you have something to say?"

He gestures to the door pull. "There's a handle right—"

"Can't you see I'm on the phone?" Sweeping past him, I throw my blonde hair over my shoulder, flicking him in the face with the silky strands. Sarah is saying something, but I can hardly hear her over the sound of my own retching. The stale scent of cigarettes and B.O. clogs my throat. Doesn't this guy know what a shower is?

The wind blows into the lobby before the door latches shut behind us, and my dress's skirt swirls around my thighs. A tenant leans across the clerk's counter, looking over his shoulder at us. His eyes dip down my legs, and my heels stutter on the linoleum, my lips failing around half-formed words as his gaze meets mine.

His stare is dark—piercing—and a chill seeps into my skin—one that has nothing to do with the cold. It feels like he's looking straight through the fabric. Seeing how naked I am beneath—all the insecurities I try to hide.

He straightens, running a hand through his dark, shorn hair, and his tongue flits out to wet his lower lip. My stomach squirms, and I lift my chin and look away.

I've seen him before. In the halls. In the lobby. Once on the elevator. Mr. 22B. He's the complete opposite of clean-cut, boyish Derek. He's tall. Built. Scruffy, but in that sexy, I-don't-give-a-shit way. A tattoo peeks beneath the collar of his Carhartt sweatshirt, twisting up his neck. He seems like the kind of guy that doesn't need a girl to instruct him in bed. Someone who takes what he wants and asks forgiveness later.

Not that I'd ever. He lives on the slump side of the building. He's not even worth a second look.

"Um, A? Hello?"

Shit. I've forgotten about Sarah.

"Sorry, S. Just dealing with some...trash." My eyes stray from him to the counter clerk scratching his scalp. Not his job? Well, maybe this is. I crumple a receipt and drop it on the floor as I approach the elevator. Maybe next time, he'll think twice before making me wait for the door.

I press the button to call the lift, and a hand shoots out and grabs my forearm. My heart jumps in my throat. Stark green eyes glare down at me, and my lips part. He towers over me—22B. His fingers are so warm. So strong. So angry. So...demanding.

"Excuse you." I jerk my arm, but his grip is too tight. My inhale judders between my teeth, and his scent fills my lungs—faint cologne and something clean, like soap. At least someone knows the meaning of hygiene around here.

"You missed the trashcan," he says, and his voice is gruff. Both a challenge and a warning.

Seriously? "Jesus Christ," I mutter. "S, I'm going to have to call you back."

"But A, what about—"

I hang up on her and drop my phone into my bag, glaring up at the man with his fingers digging into my arm. "Do you mind?" I hiss at him. My initial shock fades, and anger flares in my bones. How dare he touch me without permission? Who the hell does he think he is?

"Someone's going to have to pick that up," he says, jerking his chin over his shoulder.

"Isn't that

his

job?" I shoot a look behind him to where the clerk watches us, his greasy hair dripping into his eyes as he picks up my receipt and tosses it in the trash like a good boy. I smile sweetly and turn my attention back to 22B. "See? Problem solved. Now take your hands off me." I punctuate every word with a period, turning each into its own sentence.

He holds onto me a moment longer, then his hand opens, his fingers flexing. A ding sounds behind me, and I turn on my heel, stomping into the elevator when the doors peel back.

They both stare after me. A muscle ticks in 22B's jaw, and his hands clench into fists. I kind of like that I've gotten under his skin. Sometimes, people need to be put in their place.

"You missed a spot," I call back to the clerk. As the elevator doors begin to close, I toss my empty Starbucks cup back at them. A dash of coffee spills onto the tiles, and the cup rolls toward their feet. I give them a cheery wave, then turn away, digging into my bag to call Sarah back. God, I'm going to have to start this whole conversation over again. Such a waste of time.

The doors shutter, and another ding sounds. I look up from my screen with my thumb hovering over the call button. A dirt-flecked sneaker has stopped the doors from shutting. They slide apart again. And there he is—22B.

His glare freezes me in place. I stumble back, spine colliding with the wall as he crosses the threshold. The doors slither shut behind him, trapping us in a space far too small for comfort.

Why am I letting him get to me? It's just an elevator, for Christ's sake. I huff and jab the button for the penthouse suite and turn back to my phone. But my thoughts won't settle. The elevator lurches upward, and my pulse goes with it. The still air smells of him—oakmoss and blood orange. I press my lips together. God, would it have killed him to wait for another lift?

Or maybe he wanted this. To get me alone. Trapped in this tiny space with nowhere to run. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

After a few moments, I realize the plastic square next to the golden 22 is very much unlit. He hasn't pressed the button for his floor. What's he playing at?

The last time we were in the elevator flashes through my mind. I'd been riding the lift up, fresh off an interview with

The Times

—one that did

not

go according to plan. I'd still been spiraling, stung by the reporter's words:

Unemployed. Living off a trust fund. Just looking for a chance in the spotlight. Who even are you?

The doors had opened, interrupting my misery, and in he came, his arms full of moving boxes—biceps bulging, sweat glistening on the back of his neck.

I couldn't help myself for looking. Looking and imagining. What his lips would feel like. How his sweat would taste. What his groans would sound like as those arms pinned me against the elevator wall. Biting my lip, I'd clenched my thighs together as desire had pooled in my belly. I'd wanted to lose myself. Take my frustration out in the most delicious way possible. Even if it was with a nobody like him.

"Hey," he'd smiled at me, a look of pure warmth, "you mind pressing the button for 22?" He'd rested a corner of the boxes on the railing to help balance the weight.

And then I was angry. Pissed at a stranger for what he'd made me crave. What he'd made me do. Even if it was just in my head.

Out in the hall, some old bag had been getting out of the second elevator, the doors open and waiting, offering me privacy to lick my wounds in peace.

"Sure," I'd said sweetly, pressing the button to 22. And then I ran my hand down the 20 remaining buttons, each floor lighting up beneath my touch. The doors were sliding shut, and I'd slipped between them without a backward glance, my hips swaying, giving him one last look at what he couldn't touch. I'd felt his eyes on me—seething. And it'd felt invigorating.

Well, maybe it was safe to say I'd acted a little rash back then. I could extend an olive branch now.

I peek up at the digital numbers passing in quick succession above the doors. We're nearly at his stop.

"Did you want me to...?" I gesture to the various floor buttons, but my question dies in my throat. He's still glaring at me. He must be remembering the elevator fiasco, too. And he has

not

forgiven me.

Slowly, he steps forward, crowding me. I want to shrink against the wall, but a defiant bone stiffens my spine. He can't intimidate me.

I meet his eyes and lift my chin. "What? You gonna give me a lecture now? Tell me how I should be more respectful to his kind of people? To

your

kind of people?"

His gaze holds mine as he reaches past me, and his knuckles graze my breast—brief, almost incidental, but enough to send a traitorous flush rushing to my chest. Heat seeps through the silk, through my skin, settling low in my stomach.

He hits a button. No, not a button—

the

button.

The emergency stop.

The elevator judders, halting mid-floor, and the sudden silence presses in on all sides.

"What the hell are you doing?" I round on him.

He moves closer, his shoes heavy against the metal floor. He seems to swallow the space, his body blocking out the world beyond this cramped box. "You are an entitled little bitch, you know that?" His voice is low, but his words are as sharp as if he'd slapped me.

My jaw tightens, anger surging. "Um, excuse me? How dare you—"

He grips my hips, firm and strong, and my words shatter into a startled gasp. My shopping bags slip from my arms, and my phone tumbles from my hand, clattering to the floor and skidding into the back corner. I shove at his chest, but my fists find nothing but unyielding muscle.

He doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch. "I've been watching you treat people like shit for the last two months, Annaleigh."

"How do you... How the hell do you know my name?"

"Constantly looking down on everyone. Do you even see people? Or are we all just props in your little world?" His words hang in the air, daring me to react. "People aren't toys, Annaleigh. It's time someone gave you a taste of your own medicine."

My lips part to snap back, but before I can, his hand slides beneath the hem of my dress. The roughness of his calloused fingers grazing my bare thigh sends a shock straight through my core.

I slap at him. "Don't touch me!"

"Oh, Annaleigh," he murmurs, his voice soft, as if savoring the moment. "I'm not asking for permission."

My breath hitches, but the anger swelling in my chest won't let me back down. "I said, get the hell off me!" I throw my foot out, and my stiletto's heel rams into his shin. With a groan, he stumbles back, his hands releasing me. I reach for my purse and the pepper spray tucked in the inside pocket, but he's quicker. He kicks my bag behind him, and an array of lipsticks and credit cards fly across the floor.

Curling my hands uselessly into fists, my eyes flick to the camera in the corner, to the blinking red light. Watching. Recording everything. My savior.

I nearly laugh. How stupid is he? That greasy counter clerk will call the police, and his ass will be thrown in jail. Good riddance.

"There's a camera," I remind him, unable to keep the triumph from my voice. "You really think you can get away with this?"

"Mmm," he gives it a glance before his eyes fall back to me, "it was his idea."

My breath stalls. "W-what?"

"A pre-recording playing on a loop, and a willing witness to say I was with him all evening." He leans in, and his lips graze the shell of my ear. I jerk away, but there's nowhere to go. "And all he wanted in return was to watch you get what's been coming to you."

My stomach twists, imagining that greasy fuck viewing us on his computer screen. Jerking off to it, probably. Suddenly, the camera has turned into a lecherous eye. I can't even look at it.

His hand moves to my neck, fingers skimming my collarbone, lingering just long enough to send a shiver of unease racing down my spine. Gently, he hooks a finger under my dress's strap. The silk glides over my shoulder as he pulls it down.

"Stop it!" I try to yank it back up, but he's faster. He grabs a fistful of fabric and tears. There's a sharp ripping sound as the dress gives way. The neckline splits clean down to the waist, exposing me.

A chill hits my bare skin like a warning. My tits spill free, jiggling with the motion, and his eyes drop to my chest. He watches, unblinking, his lips parting as he drinks me in. Lust colors his pupils black. My nipples harden in the open air—under his gaze.

Hot shame hits me, followed by the sting of embarrassment. For a moment, I can't move. Can't speak. He's stripped me bare in more ways than one. Slowly, I lift an arm to shield my body.

"I'm going to touch you." He catches my wrist and pins it to my side. His other hand cups my right breast. Another shockwave travels through my body as he circles my nipple with his thumb. His lips skim my neck, lingering at the hollow beneath my ear. "And I'm going to taste you. And then," the heat of his breath cools where his mouth had been, "then, Annaleigh...then, I'm going to fuck you."

His hands clamp around my waist, spinning me around. My palms hit the wall, cold metal biting my skin as his body eases up behind me. His erection presses into my back, and he paws at my chest—hard and rough, pinching my nipples until I'm squirming beneath him. His hands are so big. So demanding.

My heart slams against my ribs. Warmth pools in my stomach for one brief second before reality strikes back. He's serious. He's really going to do this. Panic spears me. I push against the wall, trying to buck him off of me.

His fingers slip beneath the hem of my skirt, inching up my thigh again.

"No! You can't do this!" I thrash beneath him, clawing at his forearm, trying to pull him off me, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Oh, I can. Even if the cops did believe you, ten minutes with you would have them thinking you deserved it." He kicks my legs apart, and his hand reaches higher. His fingertips graze my pussy, and I scream and twist but only manage to grind myself onto his hand. He growls and clamps down, his entire palm plastered to my sex. His hold is punishingly hard, and my body locks with a gasp.

I'm in shock. No one has ever been so brash. I'm used to people walking on eggshells. Worshiping my feet. Treating me like nothing less than a queen. Derek would never be so forward. Always "May I touch you?" and "Is this okay?" and good God, grow a pair and learn to fuck a girl!

But this...

"No panties and a shaved cunt," he groans. "Such a good little slut, aren't you?"

He starts to pet me, working one finger up and down my slit. He parts my folds, the heel of his hand kneading my clit. My eyes glaze over, and I bite my lip, trying to ground myself.

A part of my brain purrs. Urges him not to stop. He

definitely

doesn't need instruction. And I hate him for it. Hate the way my hips tilt forward, betraying me.

"Wet, too," he says. And then he shoves two fingers inside me. My nails dig into his wrist as he hooks his fingers, stroking my inner wall. A garbled moan escapes my throat. His cock grinds into my back, ready to take its turn.

"Why, Annaleigh, if I'm not mistaken, I'd say you actually want this." He pumps his fingers in and out. In and out. The sound of my wetness mocks me.

I swallow and lift my chin, trying to regain an ounce of control. "You can't do this," I say, but it comes out weak. "I will... I will ruin you."

"Is that so?" He smiles, and there's no warmth there now. Just pure venom. "And how do you plan on doing that?" He flips my skirt over my ass, palming my backside as his fingers slide out of me, swirling deliciously at my clit, helped by the wetness of my own desire. His thumb brushes my asshole, and a jolt shoots through me.

"I—" I close my eyes, trying not to give in to the sensations. "I know where you live—22B."

"You saw me helping a sweet, old lady move into the building." He chuckles, and the vibrations rumble my back. "I bet you don't even know my name."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He's...right. I have no idea who he is. Not really. His hands leave my body, and I suddenly feel cold and so so naked—exposed and violated and completely helpless.

The sounds of his zipper releasing and his shuffling feet are loud in the quiet. I know exactly what he's doing, but I can't turn around. And then his hands are back, forcing me to bend at the waist. He grips my ass, spreading me open, and his bare cock presses against my clit before he positions it at my opening. My pussy pulses in anticipation, my body trembling as he runs the head between my lips, slicking himself with my juices. I resist the urge to tilt my hips, to push back against him. To ease onto him.

"Oh, Annaleigh," he hisses, pulling my hair back, his teeth nipping my neck. "I think I'm going to like this."

I cry out as he plunges inside me, sinking to the hilt. He stays there for several long moments. Filling me. Stretching me. Basking in my humiliation.

"Nothing to say now, huh?" he breathes into my ear. His hand clamps around my neck, his fingers digging into my jugular.

My body shudders as he pulls back slowly, letting me feel every inch of him. So thick and hard. "No, please," I whimper. He slams into me again, and stars burst behind my eyes.

"No?" his chuckle goads me. "You don't want this?" He rams into me twice more before I manage to find my voice.

"No..." I whimper, my hand grasping at his fingers, trying to prize them from my throat.