Chapter Nine
Cole
My body still thinks her mouth is on mine. Still tastes her. Still thinks I’m in that fucking elevator and wants more. My hands keep twitching, reaching—like they’re addicted.
I doused my face with freezing water in the lobby bathroom. Tried exercise, pounding out laps around the hotel until my lungs screamed. Did any of it help? Not one bit. My cock is hard as stone and craving the way her lips parted for me.
I even had a serious pep talk with my main man about how he needs to be “professional.”
My dick laughed at me. Actually laughed.
Okay, let’s break this down. The argument? That was on me. Chasing her down? Also me. The part where I told her she was too scared to act on instinct? I knew what I was doing, and hell… I’d do it again.
But the next part? The part that won’t stop looping in my head?
She grabbed my face.
Not the other way around.
I’ve been white-knuckling my way through twenty-four hours of not doing that. Then damn, she kissed me like she meant it, like she was proving a point. I stood there stupefied for a full second (which, to be clear, has never happened to me with a woman).
Everything came back online at once, and I got my arm around her, yanking her in. Then, she pressed into me, her leg locking around my thigh—
Fuuuck.
One roll of her hips and I could tell how bad she wanted it.
If that alarm hadn’t blared, if those doors hadn’t pulled us apart, one more fucking look at those blown pupils, that swollen mouth,
I would’ve wrecked her.
My hands flex again. I catch them, force them to behave. There’s too much energy humming under my skin, I’m a live wire with nowhere to go. And there’s only one place I want to put it.
Not an option.
I push through the ballroom doors, and my gaze locks onto Ivy.
I hate how effortlessly my eyes find her, as if they’ve been reprogrammed to seek her out.
She’s seated at a table by the windows, the ocean framed behind her, completely immersed in her iPad.
Her fingers dance across the screen, her shoulders set in that posture that says, “I’m not flustered, I’m focused. ”
Like she’s already logged our kiss as a minor scheduling conflict and moved the hell on.
The Ocean View Ballroom is prepped for lunch, but it smells as though someone dumped a truckload of mango smoothies in here.
Juliette’s team has done an impressive job with last night’s crime scene: fresh linens on twenty large tables, each surrounded by eight chairs, and driftwood centerpieces that are trying very hard to look like they’re not trying.
The DJ booth and Saltwater Saviors’ hype reel are long gone, the projection screen now cycling through cinematic beach footage.
And yet, the mango sweetness still haunts the air, proof that some disasters leave a signature scent.
Every place setting has a name card, and the room is filling fast. Voices are too bright, postures too eager, everyone testing out versions of themselves to sound interesting to strangers.
I grab a drink from a passing tray and start moving, a grin tugging at my lips as I eavesdrop and search for my assigned seat.
“Hi, so what’s your hobby? Mine’s cyberstalking exes on Instagram.”
“You believe in love at first swipe? Me too!”
“Oh yeah, I meditate daily. I use this app that helps me scroll TikTok in silence for like ten minutes.”
Table three, no placeholder. Table four, still nothing.
“I love deep conversations—like ‘if you were a potato, how would you choose to be cooked, and why are you single?’”
“I am not high maintenance. I know because I had to explain it slowly to my ex-boyfriend.”
I pass tables seven, eight, nine… and my feet slow as I realize Ivy is seated at the only two-top in the room.
Two chairs. Two name cards.
Cole Hartwell.
Ivy Ellison.
Right. Because we’re the ones running this show, not the ones here to mingle.
I clear my throat, aiming for casual, as I approach my seat. “You know, Stopwatch, if you wanted me all to yourself, you could’ve just said so.”
She doesn’t glance up, her fingers hammering away on her tablet. “I wanted to sit alone, but unlucky me. The seating chart didn’t have room for both you and your oversized ego.”
Alrighty, so she’s doing the whole “pretend it never happened” thing. Fine by me. I’ll play along.
I yank out my chair, plop my ass down, and slap myself with some cold, hard facts.
Fact one: Ivy Ellison is my colleague.
Fact two: We’re competing for the same promotion, and there is no room for rivals.
Fact three: That elevator incident? Pure adrenaline. A one-time bad judgment call that we’re both erasing from memory.
Fact four: Her mouth is officially a “Restricted Zone.”
Done. Decided. The rules are clear—no lingering thoughts, no unnecessary words beyond professional small talk, and let that kiss die a quiet, painless death.
I’ve shut down bigger problems than this: pissed-off clients, livestream meltdowns, and a rogue foam cannon.
A lunch with Ivy? Cake.
She slaps her tablet down on the table and whirls toward me. “The heat’s going to fry the equipment on the beach, and the last thing we need is the stream cutting out.”
I grin, leaning closer. “Don’t worry. I always run hot.”
“Good for you. The cameras don’t. Stick to the topic.”
I hold up my backpack. “Already got it covered. Ice gel packs in here.”
Ivy raises an eyebrow. “So we’re relying on you to find them in that black hole you call a bag? Fantastic.”
She reaches for her water, her fingers wrapping around the glass as my eyes (fucking traitors) follow the straw. She brings it to her lips.
Christ.
That delicious, velvet-soft mouth—shaped into a perfect ‘O’—clamps down.
And sucks.
My cock enjoys every second. The placement. The suction. The slow swallow.
REMEMBER FACT FOUR, I scream internally. RESTRICTED ZONE. HIGH VOLTAGE FENCE. DO NOT—
He’s not listening. He remembers those lips. I grip the edge of the table and pretend to focus, nodding along while Ivy rambles about logistics, volunteer rotations, and something about sticking to the shoreline.
I hear none of it.
She takes another sip, and my eyes are hypnotized as her cheeks hollow, her throat working in a tight, rhythmic swallow.
Fuck. I’m this close to starting an argument just to feel her mouth on mine again.
Ivy pulls away, a tiny glistening drop of water clinging to her soft lower lip.
And then, she does the unthinkable.
She licks it off.
Her tongue—the same one currently filed under “Incinerated Memories”—flicks out and swipes at the drop.
WHOOSH.
Every drop of blood in my body abandons its post and makes a high-speed evacuation south. My zipper strains.
Stand down, you one-eyed moron! We are professionals! We are working for a promotion!
Does he listen? No. My pulse is pounding so hard in my dick I’m shocked Ivy doesn’t ask if there’s a jackhammer under the table.
I grab my napkin and drape it across my lap as if I’m settling in for a polite lunch and not barricading a hostile takeover.
“Are you okay?” Ivy tilts her head. “You’re redder than a stop sign.”
“Water!” I bark, grabbing the glass and knocking it back in one go. The cold burns all the way down.
“Wow,” she murmurs, one brow arching. “Should I be concerned, or just stand back and enjoy the show?”
My cup lands with a clunk.
“Relax. I can handle myself. You’re the one taking notes.”
She doesn’t break eye contact, her posture shifting forward. “Oh, please, I’m making sure you don’t choke on your own arrogance.”
Damn it. She had to go and say choke.
Now I’m imagining her kneeling right here, those plump lips wrapped around my cock, taking every thrust like she craves it—harder, deeper—until she gags and moans, burying me in the back of her throat.
“Ahem.”
I jolt as though I’ve been caught red-handed, realizing Ivy and I are locked in some kind of stare-down, our faces so close I’m counting her freaking eyelashes.
When did that happen?
Sienna stands by our table, her lips curved in a smirk that spells out busted.
“Hey guys. Should I do the safety briefing now, or wait until after your fireworks presentation?”
Ivy’s spine goes military-straight. “Dr. Alvarez! Hi! We were just…” Her gaze darts to me, then away. “Reviewing logistics. Everything’s all set whenever you want to start.”
Sienna nods. “Copy that. I’ll get things moving in a minute.”
She turns to me. “I watched the extra footage you shot this morning.”
I perk up. “Yeah?”
“It’s solid. Would you mind grabbing some more? The boat, especially. The Salty Old Sea Hag isn’t just scenery. She’s the star.”
I chuckle. “Oh, she’s the headliner, no doubt. I’ll make sure she gets the spotlight she deserves.”
A server stops at our table and refills our water glasses. Ivy grabs hers, taking another long sip with that damn straw. I jerk my attention to Sienna, but my cock is a compass and Ivy is north.
“I’m cutting together something for the Saltwater Saviors channel,” Sienna adds. “Figured viewers might enjoy a peek at the vessel we call home.”
“Really smart,” I say, grinning like hell to distract from the tent my dick is pitching under this napkin. “I can help edit it, too. Clean it up, color, whatever you need.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” Sienna says with a warm smile.
Beside me, Ivy stiffens. A flash of green-eyed jealousy surfaces before she scrubs it behind a professional nod.
Well, well, well. That’s new.
I shift to gloat, but my elbow has other plans, clipping my glass—
And launching it skyward.
SPLASH.
Sienna’s boots take the hit.
“Shit! Sorry!”
I snatch my napkin, lift it, then realize the tactical error of removing my only defense.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
I slam it back down like I’m trying to smother a fire, but it’s too late. Ivy’s eyes are already locked on my lap.
They widen.
Then linger.
Then roll so dramatically, I swear I feel the eye strain in my penis.
“Unbelievable,” she mutters and glares. She pivots to Sienna, her expression softening as she offers her napkin. “Here. Use a clean one.”