Chapter 18 Chloe
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHLOE
The door clicks shut behind me, muffling the bustling night, and I press my back against it like I’ve just run a marathon. My lips are still tingling. My heart hasn’t slowed down.
I kissed him.
No. He kissed me. And I kissed him back.
God, did I kiss him back.
I drop my keys on the counter and pace my flat, running my hands through my hair like that will somehow clear the heat still humming in my skin. My head keeps replaying it. The way Ollie leaned in so carefully, the way he gave me every second to pull away, and the way I didn’t. Couldn’t.
And then that first touch of his mouth. Soft, then hungry, like he couldn’t help himself. Like I’d been right all along and I wasn’t the only one holding back.
I groan and flop onto the sofa, covering my face with my hands. What the hell have I done?
My phone buzzes.
Of course it’s Hannah.
Hannah: Well??? Did you see him? Did he walk you home??
Of course, I’d let slip earlier to her that I was going to wander past the pub. Just to see if he was there. I stare at the screen, chewing my lip. If I tell her the truth, she’ll never let me live it down.
Me: We walked. Talked. It was fine.
The three dots appear instantly.
Hannah: Fine??? Babe. You do not pace-type “fine.” Spill.
She knows me too well. I huff a laugh despite myself.
Me: He kissed me.
The dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.
Hannah: OH. MY. GOD.
I roll my eyes, grinning helplessly.
Me: It wasn’t planned. It just happened. Outside my flat.
Hannah: And??? DETAILS.
I sink lower into the cushions, heart racing all over again.
Me: It was intense. Good. Too good. I’m still buzzing.
Hannah: Babe, I can HEAR you blushing through the phone.
She’s not wrong. My face is on fire.
Me: I didn’t invite him in.
Hannah: Sensible.
Me: Feels cowardly.
Hannah: No. You did the right thing. Boundaries. Control. Next time you can invite him in. ;)
I groan, tossing the phone aside.
Next time. Just the thought makes my stomach twist with nerves and something far warmer.
I shuffle into the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and try to steady myself.
It was the right call. I know it. Because once Ollie steps inside this flat, once that door closes behind him, there’ll be no going back. And I’m not ready to risk it — not when the team already hates me, not when Murphy would cut him dead if he knew.
But God, I wanted to. Every fibre of me wanted to tug him inside, lock the door, and climb him like a tree.
I lean against the counter, shutting my eyes.
The memory is so vivid it’s almost cruel.
His hand at my waist, hot and solid. The way he tasted, a mix of beer from the pub and something sweet I couldn’t place, but now crave like oxygen.
The low rumble of his laugh when I whispered it was a bad idea, and he said it was the best bad idea he’d ever had.
I press my thighs together, heat sparking low in my belly.
No. Stop.
I gulp down the water, put the glass in the sink, and march myself to bed like discipline will save me. I change into my softest pyjamas, climb under the duvet, and pull the covers over my head like a shield.
Sleep. That’s what I need. Just sleep.
Except sleep doesn’t come.
My phone buzzes again on the nightstand.
Hannah: You okay?
Me: Yeah. Just trying not to overthink it.
Hannah: Too late, huh?
Me: Way too late.
Hannah: Listen. You like him. He likes you. The rest is noise.
I stare at her words, throat tight.
If only it were that simple.
Because I do like him. God help me, I do. The idiot grin, the puppy-dog eyes, the terrible jokes that shouldn’t make me laugh but always do. And beneath all that, the quiet moments where he’s more than just the clown, where he’s careful and kind in ways I didn’t expect.
But he’s also Murphy’s mate. And a player on a team that already sees me as a liability.
Noise, Hannah says. But noise this loud can drown a person.
I toss my phone aside again and burrow deeper under the duvet, trying to shut my brain off. But it’s no use.
All I can think about is him.
The weight of his hand against mine as we walked. The spark when our fingers threaded together. The press of his lips, gentle at first, then demanding, coaxing, devouring.
My body stirs before I can stop it, heat blooming in places I’ve ignored for too long. I squeeze my thighs together again, restless.
This is stupid. Dangerous. Reckless.
And inevitable.
My hand drifts down, tentative at first, as if testing the waters.
But the moment my fingertips brush the waistband of my pyjama shorts, the memory crashes back in vivid colour.
Ollie’s grin just before he leaned in, the rasp of his voice saying my name, the raw hunger in the way he kissed me like he’d been starving.
A soft sound escapes me as I slip my hand lower, the duvet muffling everything except the thundering of my heartbeat.
It’s him I’m imagining. His hand instead of mine, rougher, surer. His mouth trailing kisses lower, lower, until I can’t take it.
I bite my lip, trying to stay quiet, hips arching into my touch as the heat builds. Every flicker of pleasure is tied to him. The scrape of stubble against my skin, the way he held me like I was something precious, the certainty that if I’d asked him in tonight, he would’ve worshipped me.
The thought undoes me.
I gasp into the pillow, body shuddering as release crashes over me, sharp and overwhelming.
For a long moment, I lie there trembling, catching my breath. The room is silent, my skin damp, my body spent.
But my mind? My mind is anything but quiet.
Because even as the aftershocks fade, one truth remains, stubborn and dangerous and undeniable.
I want him.
Not just his kiss. Not just his body. Him.
And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend otherwise.