Chapter 5 #2
She steps out of them, kicks them aside, and stands there in nothing but her trainers, her bra and black lace knickers, thighs thick and soft. My mouth waters.
“You’re overdressed,” she murmurs, voice husky as she drags my jacket off my shoulders.
I let her strip me down to my undershirt, then that too, her nails scraping down my chest as she pushes me back against the counter.
The cold steel bites into my skin, but I barely notice.
All I can focus on is the way her hands are working at my belt, the way her breath stutters when she frees my cock, thick and leaking, from my boxers.
“Flippin’ heck,” she breathes, wrapping her hand around me. “No wonder you’re so cocky.”
I laugh, but it breaks into a groan as she strokes me, her thumb smearing pre-cum over the head. “Less talking,” I manage, voice rough, and then I’m spinning her around, pressing her to the counter, hands firm on her hips. “Up.”
She doesn’t hesitate. She hops, boosting herself onto the counter, her arse hitting the metal with a soft thud.
I step between her thighs, my dick brushing her stomach as I hook my fingers into the waistband of her knickers and drag them down her legs.
She lifts her hips to help, and then she’s bare in front of me, her cunt glistening, swollen, the scent of her thick enough to taste.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” I growl, dragging a finger through her folds. She’s dripping, slick coating my skin, and when I circle her clit she jerks, back arching hard.
“Been thinking about this all night,” she admits, voice wrecked. “About you. About this.”
That’s it.
I drop to my knees.
The first lick is slow and deliberate, my tongue dragging from her entrance to her clit, tasting her fully. She’s sweet and sharp and addictive. When I do it again, she moans, fingers tangling in my hair, thighs trembling around my head.
“Tom… fuck—”
I don’t stop. I lick and suck, working her clit while I slide two fingers inside her, curling them just right until she gasps, pussy clenching hard around me. I fuck her with my fingers, mouth never leaving her, the sounds she makes filling the kitchen, echoing off stainless steel.
“Gonna make you come,” I murmur against her, breath hot against her slick skin. “Gonna make you scream.”
“Yes—don’t stop—don’t you dare—”
I don’t. I redouble my efforts, my fingers pistoning in and out of her while my tongue flicks her clit, fast and relentless.
Her moans fill the kitchen, echoing off the stainless steel, mixing with the hum of the fridge and the distant drip of the sink.
And then she’s coming, her back arching, her cunt flooding my fingers, her cries ringing in my ears as she rides my face, her juices coating my chin, my lips, my tongue.
I don’t stop until she’s trembling, until her hands slip from my hair, until she’s panting hard, chest heaving.
“Fuck,” she breathes, dazed. “Tom.”
I stand, wiping my mouth, my cock aching, desperate. She looks at it, bites her lip, and slips out of her bra, tugging it free from where it’s still pushed down beneath her breasts.
“Condom,” she says with a pleading look.
I shake my head. “Clean. You?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Clean. I have a copper coil in.”
I stop, “Okay, I admit, I don’t know what that is—”
“In short, no baby in this uterus!” She pulls me down for another urgent kiss.
“Good enough,” I groan, grab her hips, haul her to the edge of the counter, line myself up, the head of my cock pressing against her slick entrance.
“Last chance to say no,” I growl, even though neither of us will.
She wraps her legs around me, heels digging into my arse. “Shut up and fuck me.”
I slam into her in one hard thrust, burying myself deep. She’s tight and wet and perfect, cunt gripping me like she was made for it. We both groan, her nails raking down my back as I bottom out.
“Fuck—” I hiss.
“Move,” she demands, already rocking against me.
So I do.
The world narrows to heat and movement and the low rush of sound between us.
Everything else slips away. We find a rhythm that pulls us relentlessly closer to the edge, even as a part of me aches for this moment to stretch on forever.
Chloe never looks away. Having her watch me like this feeds the fire in my chest until it burns like an inferno.
I move faster, chasing the feeling, chasing her, until I am right on the brink of losing myself completely.
“Come with me, Chloe,” I murmur, rough and desperate.
It is all she needs. She shatters beneath me, and the sight of her coming undone is enough to drag me over with her. I gasp her name and give in, half collapsing against her as the world finally rushes back in.
Afterwards, the kitchen feels too bright and not bright enough all at once.
We stand on opposite sides of the counter like it might be neutral territory, both breathing a little too hard, both refusing to look directly at the other for longer than necessary. Stainless steel sparkles brightly. The fridge kicks in. Normal life, apparently, has the nerve to continue.
Chloe breaks first.
“Well,” she says, too brisk. “That was… unfortunate.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Unfortunate?”
“Yes,” she says, tugging her T-shirt back into place with unnecessary force. “A spectacular lapse in judgement.”
I drag my undershirt on and immediately regret the silence. It’s the wrong kind. Too loaded.
“You were the one who kissed me,” I point out.
She freezes. Slowly turns. “Excuse me.”
“You leaned in,” I say. “You closed the distance.”
“You fed me dessert like you've read too many Victorian seduction manuals,” she shoots back.
“That was tiramisu.”
“That was foreplay,” she snaps.
I huff out a laugh. “You moaned.”
Her eyes flash. “You sucked your thumb like you wanted me to watch.”
“That was hygiene.”
“That was theatrical.”
We stare at each other, both bristling now, both clearly reaching for anger because it’s familiar and safer than whatever else this is.
“You said ‘open your mouth’,” she says flatly. “In that voice.”
I fold my arms. “You didn’t have to listen.”
“I was being polite.”
“Bullshit.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again, breath hitching. For a moment, something softer flickers there. Something dangerous.
She shuts it down immediately.
“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely between us, “cannot happen again.”
I nod. Too quickly. “Agreed.”
“You and I don’t like each other,” she continues. “We just deal with each other professionally. My work. Your restaurant. That’s it.”
“Exactly. What do we even know about each other?” I add.
“Yes,” she says. “That.”
We stand there, rigid with agreement, pretending neither of us is still painfully aware of the other’s presence.
“You started it,” she mutters.
I bark out a laugh. “You are unbelievable.”
“You literally told me I had cream on my mouth.”
“Because you did.”
“You could have let me wipe it.”
“You missed it twice.”
“That was a trap.”
“You stepped into it willingly.”
She glares at me. “I hate that you’re smug about this.”
“I hate that you’re pretending it didn’t matter.”
That lands harder than I care to admit.
Silence again. Thicker now. Less combative. Too honest.
Chloe exhales slowly. “This was a mistake.”
“Yes,” I agree. “A massive one.”
“We reset,” she says. “We are going back to not being in each other’s life. After the feature article.”
“Yup, separate lives,” I echo.
She straightens, the movement all armour and competence. “I’ve got enough for the feature. More than enough, actually. Someone from the paper will be in touch to let you know when it’s running.”
“Okay,” I say.
It is the most neutral word I own.
She nods once, already halfway gone. “Thank you. For the access. And the… explanations.”
She shoulders her bag, pauses like she might say something else, then thinks better of it. “Good night, Tom.”
“Good night, Chloe.”
She leaves. The door closes with a finality that feels entirely too loud for an empty restaurant.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the stainless steel counter like it might offer guidance. It does not.
I start cleaning because it is something to do with my hands. Wiping down surfaces. Sanitising. Erasing the evidence of our romp on the kitchen counter with methodical care.
My head is a riot. Professional boundaries. Newspaper ethics. The fact that she kissed me. The fact that I did not stop her. The fact that I would do it again without hesitation and that terrifies me far more than the shouting ever did.
When the counter is spotless, when there is nothing left to betray us except memory, I drop the sponge and spray bottle into the sink with a clatter that echoes through the kitchen.
“Fuck,” I shout.
The word bounces off steel and tile and settles back on me like an accusation.
What the fuck happened this evening?