Sodom on the Sixtieth Floor

The office on the sixtieth floor remained unchanged, yet the air within it had turned to pure poison. Three months had passed since the celestial names of Uriel and Astaroth were buried beneath the weight of the unbreakable seal the demon had forged. Now, only Carter and Dorian existed—two beings condemned to inhabit the fragility of the flesh while the financial world continued to grind beneath their feet.

The truce was non-existent. Carter, stripped of his celestial omniscience, lived in a state of permanent vigil. He was a sentry guarding not an external enemy, but the very man he was forced to assist every second of the day.

Dorian’s paralysis had returned following the incident with the shaman—a physical frailty that stood in stark contrast to the voracity of his spirit. Derand Thorne had been chillingly clear: Carter was to move into the family estate. "You’re the only one he trusts," he had said with a coldness that now carried a sinister undertone.

"Help me, Carter. My legs are nothing but dead weight today," Dorian commanded from his chair, his voice dripping with an arrogance that not even the fires of Hell could extinguish.

Carter stepped forward. His hands, once accustomed to cradling the light, closed around Dorian’s shoulders. As he lifted him to transfer him to the silk sofa, the physical contact ignited a rush of tactile memories that hit him like a tidal wave of fire.

He froze, holding Dorian’s weight, as his mind betrayed him, dragging him back to this very office. He remembered the heat of Dorian’s skin before the possession—skin that burned beneath his fingertips, skin that trembled with every caress. The sofa wasn't just furniture; it was the altar where they had once surrendered to one another.

He felt Dorian’s weight upon him again, but this time it was a coveted weight, an anchor in the middle of a storm. He remembered Dorian’s hands tearing at his shirt with a breath-stealing urgency. Buttons had scattered across the room like tiny projectiles of a desire that could no longer be contained.

The air, thick with Dorian's unmistakable scent and raw need, filled his lungs. In the memory, Carter was thrown back against the sofa, the fabric cool against his burning skin. Dorian hadn’t just kissed him; he had devoured him. His lips were a tempest; his hands, a map of fire tracing Carter’s torso, marking every inch of skin like conquered territory.

"You are mine," Dorian had whispered that night, a low growl vibrating against Carter’s chest. "Every moan, every shiver... it all belongs to me."

Carter remembered giving in—not with submission, but with equal ferocity. His hands had tangled in Dorian’s hair, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss, a battle of tongues and teeth where there were no winners, only two men drowning in each other. Their clothes had been an obstacle, a nuisance that vanished amidst groans and muffled laughter.

It was a passionate surrender on this very sofa, in a time when love wasn’t a war, but a sanctuary. He remembered the taste of Dorian’s skin against his neck, the way their hips moved in a rhythm both wild and familiar. The outside world had faded; there were no deals, no enemies, no tomorrow. There was only the heat of their bodies, the echo of their names whispered in the shadows, and the silent promise that, in those arms, they were safe.

A solitary tear escaped, sliding down Carter’s cheek and jolting him back to the present.

"What are you thinking about? You look lost," Dorian whispered, his breath hot against Carter’s ear as he settled onto the sofa.

"About how much better things were with Dorian before," Carter replied, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice.

"I’m still here!" Dorian smirked, the grin of a predator who knew exactly where his advantage lay. "We can relive that moment right now, if you wish."

Dorian didn’t wait for an answer. His hands, which still possessed an unholy strength, seized Carter by the nape of the neck and dragged him into a frantic, ravenous kiss. Carter tried to fight the momentum, but his body—the one that had always loved his boss—responded with instinctive treason.

"We’re going to get caught," Carter managed to whisper between kisses. "I don't have my powers to know if someone is coming. We're blind, Dorian."

"Let the world know," the demon spat with disdain. "You’ve already been punished for allowing this. You have nothing left to lose."

Carter hesitated, and in that brief window of uncertainty, his will snapped. He was on the verge of returning the kiss with equal intensity, giving in to a desire born of his own instincts, when an abrupt, unexpected sound made him stop dead.

The door swung open. Sigfri, Dorian’s fiancée, burst in—desperate, yet draped in elegance and fury. She froze at the sight of their proximity, Carter’s ragged breathing, and the disarray of her fiancé’s clothes.

"You’re back!" Carter exclaimed, clumsily straightening his posture. "Since when have you been here?"

"Since the exact moment it started looking like you were sleeping with my fiancé," Sigfri spat, her eyes bloodshot with rage.

Dorian, unbothered, looked at Carter with a raised eyebrow. "Why didn't you mention I was engaged?" the demon asked, feigning a lethal ignorance.

"You should have known," Carter hissed through gritted teeth. "That’s why I warned you this situation was unsustainable."

"So, you’ve been making a fool out of me!" Sigfri screamed. "How long, Dorian? How long have you been rolling around with your assistant?!"

The disaster escalated as the imposing figure of Derand appeared behind Sigfri. He entered with a slow, measured stride, his very presence silencing the woman’s screams.

"How long what? What is going on here?"

In Carter’s ear, an ethereal voice echoed with chilling clarity: "I told you, this was a forbidden love, and yet you chose to risk it."

Sigfri, trembling with indignation, pointed at Carter. "It turns out that—"

"It turns out," Dorian interrupted with icy calm, "that I didn't expect Sigfri to return by surprise. Carter was showing me the wedding rings I ordered for her, and it seems her sudden entrance caused her to become... overwhelmed."

"Wedding?" Sigfri questioned, her fury melting into stunned confusion.

Carter went cold. He didn’t have any rings. He reached into his pocket in a desperate panic, but then he felt the warmth of Dorian’s magic. The demon, exhausting his last reserves of subtle energy, had materialized the deception. Carter pulled out three white gold and diamond rings, displaying them with trembling hands.

Derand stepped closer and took one of the rings, examining it. "Is this what you're so hysterical about, Sigfri?" Derand asked with a mocking smile.

Sigfri, realizing she had to play along to maintain her standing with Derand, shifted her expression to one of false modesty. "Yes... it’s just... it shouldn't have happened like this. Right, Dorian?"

"No, of course not," Dorian replied, giving Carter an imperceptible wink.

"I’ll leave you two to talk in private," Derand said, turning around. "I’m sure you have plenty to do alone. But first... Carter, come with me. I need to go over some personal matters."

Carter felt a weight sink into his stomach, but he couldn't refuse. He followed Derand out of the office, leaving Dorian at the mercy of a Sigfri who wiped the smile off her face the moment the door clicked shut.

"Now then, Dorian. I want you to confess everything," she hissed. "Otherwise, your father is going to find out what’s really going on with your 'assistant.'"

Meanwhile, in Director Derand’s office, the atmosphere was radically different. Mister. Thorne didn't sit behind his desk; instead, he motioned for Carter to sit in the chair across from him.

"I’ve been watching you very closely, Carter," Derand began, pouring two glasses of a whiskey that cost a small fortune. "And I don't think you are who you claim to be."

Carter felt his pulse quicken. "What is the reason for such a question, Mister. Thorne?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

Derand approached from behind. He didn't hand over the glass from the front; instead, he circled Carter’s chair. The young man felt the pressure of the older man’s hands on his shoulders—a firmness that was neither paternal nor professional. Derand leaned in, his lips brushing Carter’s right earlobe, letting his warm breath saturate Carter’s skin.

"You are exactly the kind of boy I like," he whispered in a voice laced with a lechery Carter never could have imagined.

Carter sat paralyzed, glass in hand, his senses on high alert. The horror he felt was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

"I want this to stay between us," Derand continued, grazing the side of Carter’s neck with the tip of his nose. "Now that Sigfri is back, Dorian will be much busier with his role as a future husband... which means you can spend much more time with me. What do you say? Do you want to try it, or would you prefer I start drafting your letter of voluntary resignation?"

Carter closed his eyes, trapped in a web of predators that stretched beyond Heaven and Hell. Dorian claimed him as an eternal property, and now the father sought to consume him in an even more twisted game of power. The silence in Derand’s office was the prelude to a storm that threatened to obliterate what little remained of his divine essence.

"What do you say, young Carter?" Derand insisted, squeezing the assistant’s shoulders. "Do you accept my offer of protection?"