Chloe
His words tip me right over the edge, maybe even more than his mouth does, and my body just makes the decision for me.
Pleasure crests hard and fast, and I stop trying to hold it back, stop thinking about the conference room and the glass walls and the fact that his secretary is forty feet away on the other side of that door.
I arch up against him, one hand fisted in his hair, completely lost to it.
I come on his face, my body shaking with it, and he looks up at me while it happens. His dark lashes are lowered, his eyes fixed on mine, and there’s something in his expression that makes the whole thing feel about three times more intense than it already is.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against me. “Good girl. Give me all of it.”
He doesn’t stop. He stays with me, his mouth working steadily, his fingers curling forward as my hips roll against him.
“So fucking perfect,” he rasps. “You taste so goddamn good when you come.”
He’s thorough about it, keeping the pressure exactly where I need it, drawing it out far longer than I thought possible, until my thighs are shaking and I’ve got nothing left. Only then does he finally pull back.
I’m flat on my back on the table, staring up at the ceiling, my chest heaving and my legs still trembling. The room is very quiet. I can hear my own breathing, loud and unsteady in the silence, and the muffled sounds of the office beyond the closed door.
I hear him stand. Then I feel the slight shift of the table as he leans over me, his palms settling on either side of my head.
I blink up at his face, which is close enough that I can see the flush across his cheekbones, the darkness of his eyes.
He reaches over and brushes my hair back from my face, his fingers careful in a way that catches me off guard after everything that just happened.
Then he lowers his mouth to mine.
It takes me a second to register what kind of kiss this is, because it’s nothing like the others.
There’s no urgency to it, no heat driving it forward.
It’s soft and slow, and I can feel every point of contact, his lips moving against mine with a patience that has me paying attention in a different way than usual.
Whatever is underneath all the friction and the weeks of careful distance between us, it’s right there in this kiss, and it’s quiet enough that I can actually feel it.
It hits me harder than any of the others have. The other ones I could make sense of, could file away and not think about too much. This one I don’t quite know what to do with.
When he finally pulls back, he looks at me for a moment without saying anything.
Something moves across his face before it settles.
He takes my hand and helps me sit up, keeping hold of it until I’ve steadied myself.
Then he reaches down and smooths my skirt back into place, running his palms over the fabric, and crouches to pick my panties up from the floor. He holds them out to me without a word.
I take them from him, and he has the decency not to look smug about it.
My heart still racing, I try to gather my thoughts as I tug my panties back on beneath my skirt, my limbs feeling like jelly after the intense release of pleasure. I’m a little disoriented, my mind struggling to catch up with the sensations coursing through my body.
The pain in my ankle, which had been a constant throbbing presence, is now barely noticeable, overridden by the overwhelming rush of endorphins flooding my system. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
As I steal a glance at Tristan, my heart skips a beat at the sight of him adjusting his ruffled collar. Despite the intensity of our encounter, he manages to maintain an air of composure, his demeanor calm and collected.
There’s a certain magnetism about him, a raw masculinity that draws me in despite my best efforts to resist. His piercing gaze meets mine, setting off a flutter of anticipation in the pit of my stomach.
Time seems to stand still as we hold each other’s gaze, and I find myself captivated by the subtle nuances of his expression, the way his lips curve into a faint smile.
Without warning, Tristan sweeps me off my feet, his strong arms lifting me effortlessly into his embrace.
My initial protest is a weak murmur, lost in the whirlwind of emotions that cascade through me.
I barely catch my breath as he cradles me against his chest, my heart racing both from the pain in my ankle and the unexpected closeness.
“I can walk,” I manage to say, but the words are swallowed by the rush of sensations and the embarrassment that floods my cheeks.
Ignoring my protests entirely, Tristan strides out of the conference room with determined steps.
My face reddens as we pass through the bustling office.
Every pair of eyes seems to follow us—my team, Tristan’s team, and various employees who glance our way.
I bury my face in his shoulder, trying to hide my flushing cheeks from the sea of onlookers.
When we reach the elevator, Tristan’s secretary looks up in surprise, her eyes widening at the sight of him carrying me. Without missing a beat, he addresses her with his usual commanding tone. “If you could call us a car, that would be much appreciated.”
I mumble a protest under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear but not for the curious onlookers. “Seriously, this is unnecessary.”
Tristan simply shrugs, the muscles in his arms flexing with the movement as he holds me securely against him. “It’s not unnecessary. We wouldn’t want you to exacerbate that ankle injury any further.”
The elevator doors open with a soft chime, and Tristan steps inside, still carrying me. Once the doors close, he turns his gaze toward me, his expression serious. “You’re taking the rest of the day off.”
I try to counter, “We have work to do,” but I already know how this will end. Tristan’s determination is unwavering.
As expected, he shakes his head. “The day’s almost over anyway. We won’t fall behind.”
I continue to protest as Tristan carries me out of the building and toward the waiting car, but he remains resolute, his grip firm and unwavering. Despite my attempts to wriggle free, he seems intent on keeping me close, even going so far as to settle me onto his lap once we’re inside the car.
At home, Tristan scoops me up again, his movements fluid and confident as he carries me upstairs. “You’re going to take it easy for the rest of the night. Understood?”
I grit my teeth, wanting to put up more resistance, but the throbbing pain in my ankle leaves me with little choice but to acquiesce. “Fine,” I concede, my voice strained with discomfort. “But only for tonight.”
His expression softens, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. He sets me down gently on the bed, his touch tender as he begins to remove my shoes. Each careful movement sends a ripple of relief through me, easing the tension in my muscles.
“You should put on something more comfortable,” he suggests. “Here, let me—”
“I can walk,” I insist, attempting to hobble to my feet. Gently but firmly, Tristan places a hand on my shoulder, steadying me.
“I don’t think so,” he says. “You stay off that ankle.”
Reluctantly, I relent, nodding as he helps me back onto the bed. His touch is reassuring, and I find myself relaxing into the mattress as he arranges the covers around me.
Tristan disappears into the closet, returning moments later with a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. His expression is unreadable as he hands me the clothes. The fabric is soft and worn to the touch, and I suddenly realize how uncomfortable and restrictive my usual business clothes are.
I opt to change in the attached bathroom, re-emerging after a couple of minutes in the soft cotton pants and oversized shirt.
When Tristan’s gaze meets mine, I notice a subtle shift in his expression, a look I can’t quite decipher.
His eyes linger on me, and a little flutter moves through my stomach.
“Let me take you downstairs,” he says after a long pause. “Get you settled in on the couch.”
Tristan insists on carrying me again, and I don’t even try to protest this time. When we reach the living room, he lowers me onto the couch, arranging pillows around me for added comfort. Then he takes a seat beside me, his arm resting over the back of the couch.
“What are you doing?” I frown, tilting my head.
“I’m making sure my wife takes care of herself,” he replies simply. “I know you, Chloe. If I leave, you’ll just get back up and start trying to walk around.”
I smile grudgingly, acknowledging the truth in his words. If he hadn’t made me leave the office, I would’ve stayed there past five, continuing to work.
We end up settling in for the evening, Tristan taking charge of making dinner while I rest my ankle on the couch.
The aroma of his amateur cooking fills the air, comforting and inviting.
He’s far more competent than he seems to think.
His steaks are perfectly medium-rare, and the side salad he whips up is a nice complement.
As the evening progresses, we decide to indulge in a mini movie marathon, picking out a few of our favorites to enjoy together. We curl up on the couch to watch La La Land, one of my favorites.
The film begins with a musical number. Trapped in LA’s classic gridlock of traffic, Sebastian and Mia, the film’s protagonists, find themselves swept up in a spontaneous song and dance routine that captures the whimsy and romance of the city.
“Look how long these takes are,” I say, unable to stop myself. I gesture to the screen. “And how bright the colors are. It really helps create a sense of energy for the city. It’s chaotic, it’s vibrant—that’s really LA.”