Chapter 23
Ikissed him back.
Of course I did.
Andrew’s mouth was warm, insistent, and tasted like movie theater popcorn. My hand found his shirt, gripped the fabric, anchored myself to something solid—because I was drowning and didn’t care.
He made a sound low in his throat, deepened the kiss, and the world outside the car ceased to exist.
We broke apart just long enough to get out of the car. Then his hand was on my lower back, guiding me toward the elevator, and we were kissing again before the doors even closed.
The ride up was a blur. His hands in my hair. My back against the wall. The ding of the elevator arriving on his floor barely registering.
We stumbled into the penthouse.
It looked different at night. Dark, except for the glow of Boston’s city lights stretching out below the floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline glittered—blues and whites and the occasional red from a radio tower. Beautiful. Impersonal.
I’d been here dozens of times.
Never like this.
Andrew’s hands were on my jacket, pushing it off my shoulders. It hit the floor. My glasses landed on a table somewhere. I reached for his shirt, fingers fumbling with buttons until he made an impatient sound and just pulled it over his head in one swift motion.
And there he was.
All of him. Muscle and ink and scars, lit by the ambient glow of the city below. The explosion tattoo on his ribs looked different in this light—darker, more jagged, like it could ignite at any moment.
I couldn’t look away.
“You good?” His voice was rough.
“Yeah.”
“You’re staring.”
“You’re—” I didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.
He smirked, that dangerous curve of his lips, and stepped closer, crowding me back against the wall near the windows.
The glass was cool against my back through my shirt. His hands found the hem, pulling it up and off in a slow drag that made my skin prickle. I raised my arms, let him.
Cool air hit my skin. Then his hands, warm and calloused, ran down my sides, thumbs pressing into the dips of my hips.
“Jesus, Quinn.” His voice was different now. Lower. “You’ve been hiding this?”
“Hiding what?”
“This.” His palm spread across my stomach, fingers tracing the definition there. “You’re fucking built.”
My face heated. “I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, kissed my neck, teeth grazing skin. “Where’d this come from?”
“I was an athlete,” I managed. “When I was younger.”
“What kind?”
My brain stuttered. I couldn’t tell him. Not now. Not when we were—
“Does it matter?” I said instead.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. Something sharp in his expression. Curious. “Guess not.”
Then his mouth was on mine again, and I stopped thinking.
His hands were everywhere. Mapping my chest, nails scraping lightly over my nipples, sending jolts straight to my core.
I could feel how hard he was through his jeans, the rigid length pressing into me, and my own body responded instantly, aching, insistent.
It was too much and not enough at the same time, a frustrating edge that made me grind against him on instinct.
“Have you—” I started, pulling back for air, then stopped.
“Have I what?” His mouth moved to my jaw, nipping along the line, then down to my throat.
“Been with a guy before?”
He paused, his body going still against me. Pulled back to look at me, expression unreadable for a second before he grinned. “I’m almost thirty fucking years old, Quinn. I’ve fucked. Have you?”
“Yeah.”
The grin vanished.
His grip on my hips tightened—not painful, but possessive, fingers digging in as his jaw clenched.
He kissed me again, harder this time. Almost bruising, like he was hoping to erase anyone else from my memory. His hand slid up to grip the back of my neck, holding me in place exactly how he wanted.
When he pulled back, his breathing was ragged, chest heaving against mine.
“Recently?” he asked.
“No. Not for—Andrew, why does it—”
“Who was the last one?”
I stared at him. The question felt loaded, like I’d said something wrong and didn’t know what. His blue eyes were locked on mine, intense and waiting.
“My ex,” I said slowly. “But that was years ago.”
“Good.” He kissed me again, softer this time but still intense. “Good.”
I didn’t understand the reaction, but the sudden shift sparked something in me too. I wanted to ask more, wanted to know who Andrew had been with, when, how many. If anyone knew. If it was always secret like this.
But his mouth was on mine again and his hands were sliding lower and I lost the thread of the question entirely.
He got my pants unbuttoned, zipper down, and then he was lifting me, hands under my thighs like I weighed nothing. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, arms around his neck, and he carried me like I weighed nothing.
“Where—” I started to say, voice muffled against his shoulder.
“Bedroom.”
I’d never been in his bedroom. It wasn’t part of our professional relationship. Andrew Knox’s bedroom wasn’t part of any business we’d had together. But now? Now he was carrying me through a doorway into a dark room that smelled like him—clean and expensive and, somehow, familiar.
He set me down on the bed. Soft mattress, cool sheets. I barely registered it before he was on top of me, kissing me breathless, his weight settling between my legs.
“Condoms?” I managed between kisses, hands fisting in his hair.
“Nightstand.”
“Lube?”
“Same place.” He pulled back, looked at me with amusement flickering in his eyes. “You always this practical during sex?”
“I—yes?”
He laughed, a low rumble that vibrated through his chest into mine, and kissed me again. “Of course you are. Fucking perfect.”
I reached for his jeans, got them unbuttoned, pushed them down his hips along with his boxers. He kicked them off, then made quick work of mine.
And then we were skin to skin.
All of him pressed against all of me, hot, slick, with the first sheen of sweat, and I forgot how to breathe. His cock was hard against my thigh, thick and insistent, and I shifted, seeking friction.
“Fuck,” he muttered against my mouth, hips rolling once, teasing “You feel—Christ.”
He kissed me harder, hands gripping my hips, holding me in place as he ground against me, building that ache into something desperate.
Every point of contact sent electricity through my nervous system. His mouth on my neck. His hands on my thighs, spreading them wider. The weight of Andrew, solid and real, pinning me down.
“Andrew—”
“I know.” His voice was strained. Controlled but barely. “I’ve got you.”
He reached for the nightstand, found what he needed. I watched him, chest heaving, trying to process that this was happening.
That Andrew Knox was in bed with me.
That we’d crossed every line we’d drawn.
One hand slid up my thigh, teasing the sensitive skin there, making me twitch. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Say it again.” His voice was a command.
“I’m sure.”
He kissed me, slow this time. Deliberate. Like he was savoring the taste of my surrender.
Then his hand moved lower, one slick finger circling my entrance, pressing in gently.
I gasped, arching into it. He worked me open slowly, first one finger, then two, scissoring, curling, finding that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes.
His free hand stroked my cock in time, thumb swiping over the tip, spreading pre-come.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, forehead against mine. “So responsive. Look at you.”
I couldn’t respond, just whimpered, hips bucking as he added a third finger, stretching me with patient thrusts. The burn was exquisite, fading into pleasure that built and built.
He was rough after that. Not cruel, never cruel. Just intense. Needy. Like he’d been holding back for weeks—months—and couldn’t anymore.
When he finally withdrew his fingers, I whined at the loss. He rolled on the condom, slicked himself up, and positioned at my entrance. “Breathe for me, Quinn.”
He pushed in slow, inch by inch, letting me adjust to the fullness. I made a sound I didn’t recognize—half moan, half plea—as he bottomed out.
“Okay?” he asked, voice strained, muscles trembling with restraint.
“Yes. God, yes. Move.”
He did. Slow at first, rolling his hips in deep, grinding thrusts that hit every nerve. Then faster. Harder. The headboard hit the wall with each snap of his hips, rhythmic and relentless. Sweat slicked our skin, making every slide easier, hotter.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he said against my neck, teeth nipping. “Your body—Christ, Quinn. Taking me like this.”
I couldn’t respond. Could barely breathe, lost in the rhythm, the stretch, the way he filled me completely.
His hand found mine, threaded our fingers together, pinned my arm above my head. The intimacy of it—the contrast to the raw pace—broke something in me, made it all feel too real, too much.
“Look at me, Matthew,” he said, voice rough.
I did.
His eyes were dark, intense, locked on mine. Like I was the only thing that existed in his world.
“Don’t look away.”
I didn’t. Couldn’t. Even as the pressure built, coiling tight in my gut.
He kissed me as he moved, swallowing every sound I made—moans, gasps, his name—and I felt myself falling apart, shattering.
“Andrew—”
“I know. I’ve got you. Come for me.”
And I did. His hand wrapped around my cock, stroking firm and fast, and I came with his name on my lips, body clenching around him, waves crashing through me.
He followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, groaning low and broken, forehead pressed against mine, breathing hard.
We stayed like that for a long moment. Connected. Breathing in sync, hearts pounding.
Then he pulled out carefully, dealt with the condom, and collapsed beside me. We cleaned up without speaking. He handed me a towel, pointed me toward the bathroom. When I came back, he was already in bed, waiting.
The room was quiet except for our breathing.
Outside, the city glowed.
I stared at the ceiling, reality starting to filter back in.
I’d just slept with my boss.
Again.
Different boss. Different circumstances. Same pattern.
“You okay?” Andrew asked.
“Yeah.” My voice came out rough.
He turned his head to look at me. I kept staring at the ceiling.
This was—we’d just—
I need to leave.
The thought hit me hard and sudden. I needed to get out of here. Needed space to think. Needed to not be in Andrew Knox’s bed processing what we’d just done.
I sat up.
“Where are you going?” Andrew asked.
“I should—” I looked around for my clothes. “I should go.”
“It’s late.”
“I know.” I found my underwear, pulled them on. “I just—I need to go.”
He sat up, watching me. “Matthew—”
I grabbed my pants, my shirt. Got dressed with shaking hands. “I just need—I can’t—”
I couldn’t finish the sentence.
Couldn’t explain that I’d done this before. That sleeping with someone I worked for had destroyed me once already. That I was terrified it would happen again.
Andrew didn’t push. Just watched me dress in silence.
“I’ll call you a car,” he said finally.
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m calling you a car.”
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, pulled on his jeans, walked out of the bedroom.
I finished dressing. Tried to steady my breathing. Tried to figure out what the hell I’d just done.
Andrew was in the living room when I emerged, phone still in hand.
“Five minutes,” he said. “Black sedan.”
“Thank you.”
Silence.
We stood there, him shirtless by the windows, me fully dressed and ready to run.
“Andrew—”
“No need to explain.” His voice was flat. “You want to go. Go.”
That hurt more than it should have.
I nodded. Grabbed my jacket from where it had fallen near the door.
“Monday,” he said.
I looked back. He was silhouetted against the city lights, impossible to read.
“Yeah,” I said. “Monday.”
I left.
The car ride home was silent. The driver didn’t try to make conversation. I stared out the window, watching Boston blur past, trying not to think.
Failing.
Sunday was worse.
I cleaned my apartment. Did laundry. Meal prepped. All the normal weekend things.
My phone stayed silent.
No texts from Andrew. No calls.
That was fine. Expected, even. We’d crossed a line. We both needed space.
I told myself that over and over.
It didn’t help.
By Sunday night, I’d convinced myself that Monday would be awkward but manageable. We were adults. We could be professional. We’d figure out boundaries.
I went to bed early. Set my alarm. Tried to sleep.
Monday morning came. Shower. Coffee. The navy pullover that always made me feel competent.
I needed to feel competent.
I packed my bag. Laptop, notebook, phone charger. Everything organized, everything ready.
We’d talk. We’d figure it out. We’d make it work.
I checked my watch. 7:45 a.m.
Time to go.
I grabbed my keys, took a breath, reached for the door handle.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Quinn? This is Patricia from Vertical Staffing Solutions.”
“Hi. Is everything—”
“I’m calling to inform you that your contract with our client has been terminated, effective immediately.”
The world stopped.
“What?”
“Your contract has been terminated. You’re no longer required to report to the assignment. We’ll process your final payment by end of week.”
“I don’t—why?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details. The client requested termination, and we’re honoring that request.”
My hands went numb.
“But I—”
I couldn’t speak.
“Mr. Quinn? Was there something else?”
“No,” I managed. “Nothing else.”
“Thank you. Best of luck with your future endeavors.”
She hung up.
I stood there. Dressed for work. Keys in hand. Phone pressed to my ear.
Fired.
Andrew had fired me.
What the fuck?