Behind the Glass, Above the City

The elevator climbed too slowly, or maybe my pulse was just racing too fast. I’d been in this same Chicago high-rise dozens of times for conferences, but tonight felt different—charged, like the air before a storm. Marcus stood beside me in his charcoal suit, the one that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. He hadn’t touched me since we’d left the bar downstairs, but I could feel him anyway, a magnetic pull that made my skin prickle under my silk blouse.

The memory of the conference dinner still buzzed in my veins. I’d spent the afternoon on a panel, presenting my team’s data analytics work to a room of skeptical, mostly male, executives. The rush of commanding the room, of watching their dismissive expressions shift to genuine interest, had left me vibrating with a potent, professional high. Marcus had been in the back, a silent, proud smile playing on his lips. Later, over seared scallops and an expensive Cabernet, he’d leaned in and murmured, “You eviscerated them, Claire. It was a thing of beauty.” The contrast was intoxicating: respected professional by day, and now, walking to a hotel room with this man who looked at me like I was a feast.

"Forty-two floors," he said quietly, watching the numbers climb. "Corner suite. I requested it specifically."

My stomach fluttered. "Why that one?"

His sideways smile sent heat pooling low in my belly. "You'll see."

The elevator dinged, its doors sliding open with a hushed sigh. He guided me out with a hand on the small of my back. His fingers traced the edge of my blazer, dipping just beneath the hem to brush against the thin fabric of my blouse. Such a small touch, but it made me shiver. We'd been dating for six months, and he still had this way of making me feel like we were seventeen and sneaking around, a feeling I’d spent most of my actual teenage years avoiding. I’d been the girl who triple-checked the locks, who kept her shades drawn, who had a five-year plan by sophomore year. This reckless thrum in my chest was foreign, and utterly compelling.

The hallway stretched endlessly, all gold-leaf wallpaper and dim, art deco sconces casting pools of warm light. My heels clicked a staccato rhythm against the veined marble as we passed door after door, each one hiding its own anonymous stories. Marcus stopped at 4210 and slid the key card from his wallet with deliberate slowness. The lock beeped green.

"After you, Claire."

I stepped inside and immediately understood. The entire far wall was glass—floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Chicago's glittering skyline. The city spread below us like scattered diamonds, Lake Michigan a black void beyond. But it was the angle that made my breath catch. We were positioned at the corner, two walls of glass meeting, putting us on display from multiple directions. The room itself was a study in minimalist luxury—a low, charcoal sectional, a single abstract painting in bruised purples and blues, a bed so large it seemed to float in the adjoining room.

"Jesus," I whispered, walking toward the windows as if in a trance. My reflection approached—blonde hair catching the light, black blazer and pencil skirt professional but clinging in all the right places. "It's like being in a fishbowl."

"A very exclusive fishbowl." Marcus came up behind me, close enough that I could feel his warmth but not quite touching. He placed his briefcase on the console table with a soft thud, and I noticed the familiar, slightly frayed corner of the legal pad sticking out. It was a quirk of his, this reliance on physical paper in a digital world, a small vulnerability in his otherwise impeccable armor. "How many buildings do you think can see in here?"

I looked out across the darkness, counting lights. Twenty, maybe thirty buildings close enough. Hotels, offices, luxury apartments. "Dozens."

"And every single one has windows. People working late. Insomniacs. Anyone with binoculars and good eyesight could be watching right now." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "They could see everything."

A thrill shot through me, sharp and unexpected. I'd never thought of myself as an exhibitionist. I'd always been the good girl—perfect grades, appropriate clothes, appropriate everything. But something about being up here, forty-two floors above the city, with Marcus's heat at my back and all those anonymous windows staring back... it made me feel wild. It felt like an extension of the power I’d wielded in that conference room, but stripped of all pretense and policy.

"Are there curtains?" My voice came out breathless.

"Of course." His hands found my shoulders, thumbs working at the tension there with a practiced, almost therapeutic pressure. He was full of these quiet contradictions—a dominating presence who could give a shockingly good massage. "But where's the fun in that?"

I leaned back into him, letting my head rest against his chest. Through his suit jacket, I could feel his heart beating steady and strong. His hands moved down my arms, then back up, tracing the lapels of my blazer.

"Take this off."

It wasn't a request. The commanding tone sent electricity straight to my core. I shrugged out of the blazer, letting it fall to the floor with a whisper of fabric. My reflection showed a woman in a cream silk blouse that had seemed conservative this morning but now felt impossibly thin. The city lights backlit me, making the fabric nearly translucent. My nipples pressed visibly against the silk, hard and obvious.

"Christ, Claire. Look at you." Marcus stepped to the side, his gaze sweeping from my face to my breasts and back up. "Anyone watching can see how turned on you are. They can see the proof of it."

"They can see everything," I whispered, shocked by how much the words excited me. "My blouse is basically see-through in this light."

"Then let's give them something worth seeing." His fingers found the top button of my blouse, working it free with maddening slowness. The pad of his thumb brushed the hollow of my throat. "Unless you want to stop?"

I should have said yes. Should have pulled the curtains and kept this private, safe. A memory flashed, unbidden: my college boyfriend, fumbling with my bra in his darkened dorm room, leaping three feet back when the motion-sensitive hall light flicked on outside the door. The sheer, stomach-swooping panic of it. This was the opposite of that. This was a choice, made in full light.

Instead, I found myself arching into his touch, offering him better access. "Don't stop."

The second button opened, then the third. Each release felt like shedding another layer of my good-girl persona. Marcus's breathing had gone shallow, his usually steady hands betraying a slight tremor as he revealed my black lace bra. The contrast against my fair skin looked obscene in the window's reflection—like something from a movie I wasn't supposed to watch.

"Keep going," I breathed, surprising us both. "All the way."

His dark eyes snapped to mine in the glass. "You sure?"

Instead of answering, I reached back and unzipped my skirt. The fabric slid down my hips, pooling at my feet with a soft shush. Now I stood in just my blouse—hanging open—and matching black lingerie, thigh-high stockings, and heels. My legs felt shaky, but not from fear. From anticipation.

"Fuck, Claire." Marcus's voice was pure gravel. He reached out and traced the delicate lace scalloping along the top of my bra, his touch reverent. "You have no idea what you do to me."

He moved in front of me, blocking my view of the city as his mouth found mine. The kiss was desperate, hungry, all the simmering tension from dinner finally breaking loose. His hands cupped my face, tilted it exactly how he wanted, and I let him. Let him take control the way I craved but never admitted. When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.

"Turn around," he commanded. "Face the window."

I obeyed, my heels clicking against the hardwood as I pivoted. The city stretched out before me again, but now I saw it differently. Every lit window was a potential witness. Every dark glass could be hiding someone with binoculars or a telescope. The thought should have terrified me. Instead, I felt powerful. Seen, but on my own terms.

Marcus came up behind me, his hands settling on my hips. "Put your hands on the glass."

The window was cool against my palms as I leaned forward, arching my back. The position pushed my ass against his erection—hard and insistent even through his suit pants. He groaned, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hips.

"That's it. Now spread your legs. Wider."

I shifted my stance, the movement making my blouse slip off one shoulder completely. In the reflection, I looked debauched—lipstick smeared from our kiss, hair falling from its careful updo, expensive lingerie on display for anyone lucky enough to be watching. Marcus's hands slid up my sides, ghosting over the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against my neck, his breath hot against my skin. "Use your words, Claire. Tell me what you want them to see."

The directive unlocked something. It wasn't just about reacting anymore. "I want them to see you touch me," I said, my voice gaining strength as I watched our reflection. "I want them to see how wet I am for you. I want... I want someone out there to be so jealous they can't stand it. I want them to wish they were you."

A low, approving rumble vibrated through his chest. "That's my girl." His right hand moved to cup my breast through the lace, thumb finding my nipple and rolling it slowly. The sensation shot straight to my core, making me push back against him harder. His left hand trailed lower, fingertips dancing along the edge of my panties. "Someone could be watching right now," he whispered, his voice rough with his own arousal. "Maybe it's that guy in the office tower, the one who stayed late to finish a report. He's tired, his neck hurts, and then he looks up and sees you. And suddenly, he's not tired anymore."

The specificity of it, the crafted story, ignited a new layer of heat. "Yes," I hissed.

"Or maybe it's a woman in that apartment building," he continued, his fingers slipping beneath the lace to find me soaked. "She's up feeding a newborn, exhausted, feeling invisible. And she sees you. Sees the way your back arches. Sees the power in it. And for a minute, she remembers what that feels like."

"Let them watch." The admission was fierce now, a claiming. "Let them see how much I want you. Let them see everything."

Marcus's fingers slid inside me, curling with exquisite precision. I cried out, my forehead pressing against the cool glass. "Christ, Claire. You're dripping for them. For this."

I whimpered as he worked his fingers, my hips jerking against his touch. The city lights blurred as my eyes fluttered closed, every nerve ending focused on the slow, deliberate movements of his hand.

"Look at me," he commanded. "Look at us."

I forced my eyes open, meeting his gaze in the window's reflection. The sight was obscene—me, mostly naked and spread against the glass, while Marcus remained fully dressed in his expensive suit, his tie still perfectly knotted. The power imbalance, the visual contrast, made me even wetter, my inner muscles clenching around his fingers.

"Please," I begged, not caring how desperate I sounded. "I need more. I need you."

He withdrew his fingers, leaving me empty and aching, and brought them to his mouth. "You taste like victory," he growled, a deviation from his usual script that felt infinitely more personal. "Get on your knees."

I dropped without hesitation, the hardwood floor biting into my knees through the thin stockings. My hands went to his belt, fumbling with the buckle in my haste. He let me struggle for a moment before brushing my hands away and undoing it himself, the leather sliding free with a hushed sigh. He pushed his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock, already thick and heavy in my hands.

"Open."

I took him in my mouth, the familiar taste and feel of him grounding me even as my arousal spiraled higher. Above me, Marcus's breath hissed out between his teeth, his hands tangling gently in my hair. I loved this—loved reducing him to grunts and curses, loved knowing I could make this controlled man lose himself.

"Fuck, your mouth." His hips rolled gently, feeding me more. "Look up at me. Let me see those pretty eyes while you suck me. Let them see."

Our gazes locked as I took him deeper, my throat relaxing to accommodate his length. The city lights cast strange, dramatic shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. His grip in my hair tightened, not painfully, but possessively, guiding my rhythm exactly how he wanted it.

But just as I found my groove, lost in the rhythm and the salt-skin taste of him, he pulled me off with a wet pop. "Enough. I want to come inside you, not down your throat. I want to feel you come around me while they watch."

He hauled me to my feet, his mouth crashing against mine. I could taste myself on his lips, mixed with his unique flavor. His hands were everywhere—cupping my breasts, squeezing my ass, sliding back into my panties to make sure I was still ready, which I was, desperately.

"The bed," I gasped against his mouth. "Please."

"No." He spun me back to face the window, his hand between my shoulder blades applying firm, guiding pressure. "Right here. Let them watch me fuck you. Let them see how you take me."

The words sent a fresh wave of arousal through me. I leaned forward, my palms flat against the glass, my ass presented to him. Behind me, I heard the rustle of fabric—his suit pants hitting the floor, the tear of a condom wrapper. And then, a different sound: the distinct, muffled chime of the hotel room phone from the bedside table. We both froze.

The sound was an intrusion from the safe, ordered world, a reminder of consequences. My breath caught. Marcus’s hands stilled on my hips.

“Ignore it,” he murmured, but there was a new edge in his voice, a hint of the same risk I felt prickling my skin.

It rang again, insistent. The voyeuristic fantasy sharpened, pierced by a needle of real-world anxiety. What if it was management? What if someone had seen and complained? The phone rang a third time, then fell silent. The abrupt quiet was louder than the ringing had been.

“Last chance to change your mind,” Marcus said, his voice low and serious now as he positioned himself behind me. The head of his cock nudged my entrance. “Once I start, I’m not stopping. Not for anything.”

The interrupted threat made the decision clearer, more defiant. The risk was real, and that made the surrender more complete. "Do it," I said, pushing back against him. "Fuck me. Let the whole city watch."

He entered me in one smooth, claiming thrust, filling me completely. We both groaned, the sound echoing in the spacious suite. For a moment, he stayed still, buried to the hilt, letting me adjust to the angle, the depth, the sheer exposure. Then he began to move—slow, deliberate strokes that made me see stars.

"Touch yourself," he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of his control. "I want them to see you get yourself off while I fuck you. Show them how good it is."

My hand moved to my clit, fingers working in desperate, slick circles. The dual sensation was overwhelming—Marcus pounding into me from behind, each thrust jolting me against the glass, while I touched myself for an audience of shadows and light. The windows across from us seemed to pulse in time with our movements.

"Tell me what they see," I panted, the words tumbling out. "Right now."

He grunted, his pace stuttering for a second at my request. Then his voice came, hot against my ear, painting the picture. "They see a woman who isn't afraid. They see your back flexing. They see my hands holding you up. They see the sweat on your spine." His thrusts became harder, deeper. "In that building, the one with the green light on the top floor... a light just went on in a corner office. A late worker. Maybe he's standing at his window now, coffee gone cold, watching you fall apart."

The image was so vivid, so specific. My eyes flew open, searching for that green light. I found it, a steady emerald beacon in a grid of white and yellow. And there, in the building beside it, a new square of gold flicked on, high up, followed by another a few floors down. It was probably a coincidence, the random pattern of a waking city, but in my feverish state, it felt like a response. An audience tuning in.

"Marcus," I sobbed, my fingers frantic. "I'm so close. Please."

"Come for them, Claire," he growled, his rhythm becoming punishing, perfect. "Come with my cock inside you, knowing he's watching. Knowing they're all watching. Give them the show they stayed up for."

His words, the imagined gaze from that solitary green-lit window, pushed me over the edge. My orgasm crashed through me, a tidal wave of sensation that tore a scream from my throat, raw and unfiltered. My inner muscles clamped down on him violently, my body bowing against the glass as the pleasure shattered me into a thousand glittering pieces.

Above the city, forty-two floors up, I came apart completely—no shame, no holding back, just pure, exposed sensation.

Marcus groaned, a deep, ragged sound of release as my climax triggered his own. He buried himself deep, his fingers bruising my hips as he pulsed inside me. We stayed locked together, both panting, my cheek pressed against the cool glass, our sweat smearing the pristine surface.

For a long minute, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing and the distant, silent pulse of the city. Slowly, carefully, he pulled out and disposed of the condom. When he turned me around, I expected to see smug satisfaction. Instead, his expression was raw, awed, his own composure thoroughly shattered. He looked younger, almost unsure.

"You're incredible," he said softly, his thumb brushing a tear from my cheek I hadn't even felt. "So fucking brave."

I laughed shakily, my limbs feeling like liquid. "I can't believe I just did that."

"I can." He kissed my forehead, a tender gesture that felt more intimate than anything that had come before. "I always knew you had this in you. The woman who commanded that boardroom today doesn't do anything by halves." He glanced at the window, then back at me, a faint, uncharacteristic blush on his cheeks. "For the record... that terrifies me a little. In the best way."

The admission was a gift, a crack in his dominant armor that made him real. I reached up and traced his jaw. "Good."

He smiled, then pulled back with a more familiar, mischievous grin. "Though we might want to close the curtains before room service arrives. I ordered champagne and dessert while you were in the bathroom at dinner."

"Marcus!" I swatted his chest, the normalcy of the gesture absurd and comforting. "The phone… what if that was them?"

"Then they're running late," he said, utterly unperturbed. He moved to the window, his naked body a pale, powerful silhouette against the panorama, and drew the heavy, velvet curtains with a final, decisive sweep. The city disappeared, leaving us in a soft, private gloom. "Besides, the show's over. For tonight."

I stretched luxuriously, every muscle singing with pleasant exhaustion. "For tonight?"

His grin turned predatory. "I booked the room for the whole weekend. Thought we might explore some other fantasies. Maybe that balcony that comes off the bedroom..."

My pulse, which had begun to slow, quickened again. "You planned this."

"I hoped," he corrected, pulling me against him. His skin was warm, his heartbeat steadying. "But you rewrote the script. Exceeded every fantasy." He nuzzled my hair. "Though next time, maybe we'll leave the curtains open longer. Really give those binoculars a workout."

I rose on my toes to kiss him, already imagining tomorrow night—the chill of the balcony air on my skin, the dizzying drop below, the even greater exposure. "Next time," I agreed. "But first, I believe you mentioned champagne?"

As he fetched the bottle from the ice bucket and worked the cork free, I stood in the middle of the room, naked and utterly spent. My clothes were strewn across the floor like the aftermath of a storm. I glanced at the still-closed curtains, a smile touching my lips. Tomorrow, I'd be brave enough to open them again. Maybe even brave enough to stand there in the daylight.

The cork came free with a celebratory pop. Marcus poured two flutes, the bubbles rising in a frantic, joyful rush. He handed one to me, his fingers brushing mine.

"To the view," he said, his eyes on me, not the window.

"To the audience," I replied, clinking my glass against his.

We drank. The champagne was crisp, dry, and perfect. Outside, Chicago hummed with its endless, anonymous rhythm. But in here, we had carved out a space that was anything but anonymous. We had been seen, or had played at being seen, and in that performance, I had discovered a new facet of myself—not just the good girl, not just the competent professional, but a woman who was wild, and shameless, and hungry for more.

Marcus's hand found mine, our fingers intertwining. Tomorrow, I would put my professional mask back on. I would attend my sessions, discuss quarterly projections, and be the picture of polished ambition.

But tomorrow night? Tomorrow night, the curtains would be open. The city would be there, a vast, glittering theater. And I would be on stage again, not just reacting, but performing. Claiming my desire under a sky full of watching stars.

Tonight had been a revelation. Tomorrow would be an encore.