Chapter 26 Chloe
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHLOE
The door clicks shut behind us, and before I can even think about flicking the lock, Ollie’s mouth is on mine.
It’s like every ounce of restraint we managed through dinner snaps the second we’re alone.
His hands are everywhere, tugging at my coat, dragging it down my arms, pressing me back until my shoulders hit the wall.
I laugh into his kiss, breathless and startled, and then I’m moaning because his tongue slides against mine, tasting like wine, want, and him.
“Ollie,” I gasp, fumbling behind me for the light switch, but he catches my wrist, pinning it above my head.
“No lights,” he mutters against my mouth, low and urgent. “I want you now.”
His shirt is bunched in my fists one second, yanked open the next, and then his T-shirt’s gone too. My nails scratch his chest, and he groans like he’s being set on fire.
He drops to his knees, and I nearly stumble in surprise, but his mouth is on me, and I’m gone.
My pulse rockets as his hands shove my dress up, peeling away my knickers in one swift, practiced motion.
My thoughts are fragmented, this is reckless, this is insane, this is exactly what I’ve wanted, but there’s no time for overthinking.
“Ollie…God…” My thighs tremble around him, and he grips my hips to keep me steady.
“Hold still,” he hisses, voice rough, and I do, because I trust him implicitly even as my brain spins. His mouth moves with such fevered precision, every touch like it’s memorising me, claiming me, making me his.
I’m moaning his name before I even know I’ve started, my hands tugging at his hair, scratching at the skin of his shoulders, desperate for more of him. He growls low in response, eyes dark and hungry as he presses against me, the wall a solid anchor for the chaos of sensation he’s ignited.
When I come the first time, it’s sharp, leaving me breathless, trembling against him, and he groans, rough and guttural, letting the sound fill the hallway.
I barely have time to recover before he’s on his feet again, jeans shoved low, condom wrapper torn with his teeth, and he’s pressing himself into me with a shove that takes my breath away.
“Not done,” he murmurs, eyes dark, voice loaded with need, and then he’s inside me in one perfect, scorching thrust.
I cry out, clutching his shoulders as he drives into me, fast and hard, hips slamming me against the wall. My nails score his back and shoulders, and he hisses but doesn’t relent. It’s frantic and chaotic, and I’m loving every second.
Every thought I’ve ever had about him, every longing I’d shoved aside, crashes in. I’m moaning, gasping, tearing at his skin, but it’s not enough. His hands clutch my hips, my waist, my back, grounding me even as the rest of the world disappears.
He’s groaning, whispering my name against my mouth, and when I come again, the second time, its explosive, all-consuming, a gasp that leaves my voice raw. And he follows immediately, trembling into me, eyes closed, mouth pressed to my shoulder.
We stay pinned together against the wall, both of us panting, shaking, laughing breathlessly at the madness of it all.
“Well,” I manage between gasps, pressing a hand to my flushed face, “guess we didn’t need the sofa after all.”
Ollie smirks, leaning in to steal another soft, lingering kiss. “Hallway’s underrated,” he says, voice still rough but with a teasing lilt.
I shove his chest lightly, but I’m smiling, heat coursing through me. He grabs my hand and drags me a step forward, murmuring, “You’re insane.”
“And you love it,” I counter, voice trembling with laughter and need.
We shuffle into the flat properly, both of us barely able to keep our hands off each other. I tug off the rest of my clothes; he sheds the last of his jeans and boxers. The air is thick, heavy with heat, our breaths mingling, hearts hammering.
We collapse onto the sofa, bodies tangled, and suddenly the frenzy of the hallway is replaced by something softer, slower. He brushes a damp strand of hair from my face, thumb caressing my cheek, eyes dark and intense but tender.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low, almost vulnerable.
I nod, leaning into him. “Perfect.”
We lie there, limbs intertwined, catching our breath, his hand moving over my back, mine tracing lines over his chest. There’s laughter in the pause, soft teasing about our reckless speed, about how we should probably consider a door mat for next time.
“You know,” he says, voice playful now, “I think breakfast would be safer if we didn’t have to destroy the hallway.”
I laugh softly, cheeks burning. “I’m warning you, Ollie. I make a mean pancake, but I can’t be responsible for any more impromptu wall acrobatics.”
He nuzzles my neck, nose brushing my hair, and grins. “Then pancakes it is. You cook, I’ll clean up after we inevitably repeat this chaos.”
There’s a long, comfortable silence. My head rests on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the gentle warmth radiating off him. I feel safe, absurdly, deliciously safe, despite the wild, frantic end to the evening.
“You’re really something,” I murmur, voice soft.
“And you’re addictive,” he whispers back, pressing another lingering kiss to my temple. “I don’t think anyone’s ever made me feel like this.”
I smile, heart fluttering, fingers tracing the curve of his shoulder. “I think we’re both dangerously reckless.”
He laughs, low and warm, and tugs me closer. “I don’t care. Reckless with you? Worth every second.”
We settle into that quiet, soft space together, the world outside forgotten. My pulse slows, the fire in my veins tempered by warmth, by tenderness, by the way he holds me like I’m the most precious thing in his life.
Eventually, sleep drifts close, but I stay awake a little longer, thinking of his lips on mine, the feel of his hands, the reckless joy of surrendering to him.
And I know, absolutely, that I want more.
The sunlight spills through the blinds, painting stripes across the bedroom floor.
I blink against it, warm and heavy, and groan softly when I realise Ollie’s arm is draped over my waist, his chest pressed against my back.
I can feel the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath my hand, and for a brief, suspended moment, everything is perfect.
“Morning,” he murmurs into my hair, voice husky and half-asleep.
“Morning,” I reply, voice thick with sleep and something else, something like contentment that’s still new and unfamiliar. I stretch, careful not to disturb him too much, and his hand twitches, sliding a little lower along my side. I bite back a shiver.
He shifts, nuzzling against my shoulder, and I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “You’re ridiculous,” I murmur.
“Mm,” he hums, grinning against my skin. “Ridiculous and yours.”
I twist slightly to face him, hands tangling in his hair. His eyes flutter open, still heavy-lidded, but the spark is there. That same teasing, mischievous glint that made me melt in the hallway yesterday. “You really know how to make a morning memorable,” I say, voice low, almost breathless.
“You slept through the good part,” he replies, mock offense in his tone. “I had some world-class cuddling skills going on.”
I roll my eyes, laughing, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “World-class, huh? And here I was thinking you were just pretending to be tender.”
“Pretend?” he repeats, mock scandalised. “I don’t pretend. I’m naturally this good.”
I tug him closer, laughing again, and the blanket slips off both of us, warm skin pressing together.
He grins, eyes darkening as our hands wander in the soft morning light, a playful yet intimate rhythm building between us.
There’s no rush, no urgency, just the slow, delicious stretch of being close, tangled in sheets and each other.
He presses a kiss to my jaw, then my neck, soft and lingering, and I shiver, tilting my head into him. “Stop teasing me,” I murmur, voice breathy.
“I’m not teasing,” he says, voice low, warm, teasing all at once. “I’m making sure you remember what you’ve got.”
I laugh, rolling onto my back, pulling him with me until he’s hovering, hands bracing either side of me. His smile is lazy, boyish, that same mix of puppy-dog charm and raw heat that made me surrender yesterday. “Dangerous,” I murmur, running a hand over his chest.
“And irresistible,” he replies instantly, leaning down to press another kiss to my lips.
We stay like that for a while, lips brushing, hands exploring, soft laughter mingling with sighs. It’s intimate and complex and exactly what I didn’t know I needed until now.
Eventually, we disentangle just enough to grab our clothes, laughing at the chaos of tangled limbs, blankets, and the lingering heat of the night. He makes coffee while I grab breakfast; scrambled eggs, toast, a tiny bit of chaos in the kitchen that makes me grin.
He sidles up behind me, draping his arm around my waist, whispering jokes about my “chef’s hat of chaos” and pretending to critique my butter-to-toast ratio. I nudge him playfully, and he pretends to recoil. “I’m serious,” he says. “That’s an art form. I’m your biggest critic.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I reply, rolling my eyes but secretly loving every second of the banter.
We sit at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee, still brushing hands, exchanging smiles that are quiet but electric. No one is around to see this; no expectations, no pressures, just us. And I realise, as I watch him grin at some small, silly thing I said, that I’ve never felt more at ease.
Finally, he leans forward, resting his forehead against mine. “So, are we officially a disaster together now?”
I laugh, resting my hand against his cheek. “We might be. But I like it.”
He grins, playful and soft at the same time, and kisses me again, lingering, slow, grounding, the heat of last night now tempered with warmth and tenderness. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I don’t plan on stopping.”
I roll my eyes, laughing softly, but my heart is hammering. “You’re relentless,” I murmur.
“And you love it,” he teases, eyes sparkling with that irrepressible energy.
For a long while, we sit there like that, sipping coffee, hands brushing, the kind of easy intimacy that sneaks under your skin and makes ordinary mornings feel electric.
And in that quiet, simple moment, I know this is real.
The fire, the heat, the reckless urgency of last night, it’s still there, simmering, but beneath it, there’s trust, connection, and something dangerously thrilling that feels like the start of everything.
Eventually, we start tidying up together, fingers brushing every time we reach for the same utensil or mug, laughter spilling over the clatter of plates.
It’s playful, domestic, and intimate, all at once.
I glance at him, the man who just made my hallway and kitchen nights unforgettable, and I feel my chest tighten with something more than desire, something soft, tender, and exhilarating.
“Promise me something?” he asks suddenly, voice quiet now, no teasing in it.
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll let me keep doing this,” he says, thumb brushing over the back of my hand. “Not just the…well, you know…all of it. But mornings like this, and evenings like last night. Us.”
I bite my lip, heart hammering, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. “I…,” I whisper. “I think I could manage that.”
He grins, soft, victorious, and leans in for another slow kiss, lingering, the kind that leaves your heart racing and your stomach light. “Good. I hoped you could.”
And in that simple, perfect morning, with sunlight streaming across my kitchen and the man I can’t stop thinking about grinning at me like I’m the only person in the world, I believe him.