Chapter 19 Unexpected Variables #2
His voice is lower now. Roughened. Like restraint is costing him something.
My heart isn’t racing.
That’s the strange part.
It’s steady. Grounded in a way that feels less like nerves and more like certainty.
And that steadiness is what makes this dangerous.
“I can’t,” I say.
His jaw tightens, just slightly.
“I’ve missed you more than I should.”
He lifts his hand—slow enough that I could pull away.
I don’t.
His fingers find my chin, tilting my face up to his. And God—he’s so much taller like this. I feel it in the stretch of my spine, the instinctive rise onto my toes just to meet him halfway.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Dark. Intent. Not asking anymore—just waiting to see if I’ll stop him.
I don’t.
The rules are still intact.
My future is still untouched.
And I’m choosing this anyway.
The kiss isn’t rushed.
It’s inevitable.
Deep and consuming without being frantic—like something held back for too long finally allowed to exist. His hand stays at my jaw, steady, grounding, while the other hovers at my waist like he’s still giving me the chance to change my mind.
I don’t.
I lean in harder.
Answering him before he ever has to ask.
“You sure?” he murmurs against my lips.
“Yes.”
The word lands clean. Steady. It matters because I mean it.
Weeks of discipline crack in a single breath. My tote slips from my shoulder and hits the floor, the sound sharp in the quiet office, papers spilling like evidence. I don’t care. He doesn’t either. Everything in me feels awake. Grounded. Chosen. Choosing.
This isn’t about losing control. It’s about letting go of it.
His forehead rests briefly against mine, breath warm, anchoring us both. For half a second, the world presses in. HR. Optics. The practicum I’ve protected like a lifeline. The future I’ve been so careful not to jeopardize.
I know exactly what I’m risking.
And still, standing here with August James, the rules feel distant. Thin. Like ice you step onto knowing the depth below and doing it anyway.
He studies my face, searching one last time for hesitation. For retreat.
I don’t give him any.
“I'm done playing by the rules.”
I wet my lips, heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel it through his palm still pressed to the small of my back. His eyes track the movement of my tongue, darkening, focus narrowing like he’s locked onto something inevitable.
“I…” The words snag in my throat. Years of self-preservation don’t let go easily.
His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, coaxing, grounding. “Will you please put me out of my misery and let me fuck you, again?” he almost begs, slower.
The question rolls off his tongue so smooth it almost purrs and it breaks something loose inside me. I reach up, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring myself to him like if I let go, I’ll float off the ground.
“Yes,” I whisper, the admission tearing from somewhere deep and unguarded.
His eyes flash with something sharp and victorious, but there’s relief there too. Hunger. And something heavier I’m not ready to carry yet.
“Again,” he demands, voice rough with need. “Say it again. Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
“I want you to fuck me. Right here, right now.”
The glass is opaque. The door solid. The hallway quiet. Not invisible. Just contained.
So much for being just friends.
Finally.
Our mouths collide, hungry and unapologetic. I suck and bite on his lip pulling his full lips into mine. He pushes me back against the one part of the office not on full display, the massive wooden door swallowing my gasp as his hands grip the backs of my thighs.
August dips down, hiking my dress up with both hands before gripping under my thighs and lifting me like I weigh nothing, like I was made to be carried this way.
I lock my legs around his waist, ankles crossing behind him, have mercy, his mouth finds my neck and he flattens tongue against it and begins to lick.
His hand grips around my neck softly before he brings my lips to his and the moment our mouths meet in a kiss that feels more like impact than affection.
He breaks away just long enough to yank my thong with a swift, brutal tug.
The fabric snaps, burning a line across my hips, and I yelp into his mouth.
His tongue is in my mouth, swallowing the sound as he braces me harder against the door.
One hand finds his zipper. The other keeps me tethered to him like a lifeline.
Come hell or high water, I want to drown in whatever hurricane August is about to unleash.
He doesn’t hesitate. No teasing. No patience. No taking his time. He slides inside me with a single, delicious thrust, stretching me until I’m full. Completely. Achingly full.
My gasp punches out of me like a prayer ripped loose, sharp and sudden, my body tightening around him before I can even think to stop it.
Heat floods low and fast, my thighs locking around his hips like I need the leverage—like I need to hold him there.
“August—”
His name breaks, barely a word.
My fingers tangle in his hair, gripping, pulling him back into a kiss that’s all breath and teeth and something just shy of a dare.
He answers it.
Of course he does.
His hands find me—firm, grounding—dragging me closer until my back hits the office door with a dull, solid thud, the sound swallowed by the space around us.
I feel the shift before it happens.
That lift.
My breath catches as he hoists me up, the sudden movement pressing me harder into the door, every point of contact lighting up at once.
Too much. Not enough.
The door gives slightly behind me with each movement, a quiet knock-knock rhythm that feels too loud and not loud enough all at once.
My heel scrapes against the wood, catching, slipping—then the strap gives, my shoe falling away somewhere behind me with a soft, forgotten sound.
I don’t even look.
Can’t.
I hate how easy this is.
I love how easy this is.
My head tips back, a broken sound slipping out of me as my grip tightens, legs locking harder around him like I don’t trust myself to stay upright otherwise.
Like I don’t want to.
“Deeper,” I breathe, not even sure the word makes it out.
He gives it to me anyway.
The thrusts turn hard, relentless—like he’s trying to carve himself into me, each one landing with a force that steals the air from my lungs. His hunger is raw, unfiltered, and I feel it everywhere—too much, not enough, all at once.
My hands find his shoulders, nails digging in as my back arches, chasing the rhythm, trying to hold onto something that won’t stay still.
He doesn’t slow down.
Every movement is deliberate, driving, like he’s proving something with it—and my body answers before my mind can catch up, meeting him, matching him, losing myself in the impact.
Breath catches. Breaks. Disappears.
The room fills with it—heat, tension, the sharp sound of us colliding, echoing off glass and wood like something we should care about.
I don’t.
I tighten around him, thighs locking, holding him there like I can contain this—like I can keep it from spilling over into something bigger than I’m ready to name.
This is how people get stuck.
This is how I get stuck.
His mouth leaves mine, teeth grazing my skin—my neck, my collarbone—sharp enough to make me gasp, soft enough to make me lean into it anyway.
He lingers just below my ear, pulling something out of me I can’t quite swallow back.
I bite down—his shirt, my lip, anything—to keep the sound in, to keep whatever this is from breaking loose completely.
My head tips back, vision blurring, the world narrowing to this—him, the pressure, the heat, the way my body stops belonging to me.
He tilts my chin just enough that our eyes meet.
Dark. Focused. Gone.
The windows behind us catch it all—blurred reflections, city lights flickering like they’re watching something they shouldn’t.
My legs are wrapped tight around his waist, dress pushed out of the way, skin flushed, open, like I’ve forgotten how to stand on my own.
Like I don’t need to.
“Look at us,” he pants, voice rough against my ear. “Look at what you do to me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut—then force them open.
My vision swims, edges soft and unfocused, but I find him anyway.
August.
His body is all tension and control, muscles tightening beneath skin slick with heat, every movement deliberate, purposeful. His scent—warm, salt, something deeper—mixes with mine, thick in the air, impossible to separate.
Our breathing fills the space. Ragged. Uneven. Shared.
Every movement sends a sharp pulse through me, lighting up nerve endings I didn’t even know existed.
The intensity of it hits all at once.
Him—deep, steady, unrelenting—like he’s trying to anchor himself somewhere inside me.
My thighs tremble around him, grip tightening, nails dragging across his back just to feel something solid, something real.
I hold on. To him. To this. To the moment before it breaks.
“Eyes on me, baby,” he growls, the sound low and rough enough to pull something tight in my chest. “Déjame verte al llegar.”
I try.
I really do.
But he doesn’t let up.
Everything builds—pressure, heat, rhythm—stacking faster than I can process it, pushing me right to the edge and holding me there like he’s waiting for something.
Like he needs to see it.
As we unravel together—raw, unrestrained—I tilt my head back, breath catching, breaking, my body giving in piece by piece.
I’m not in control anymore.
Not even a little.
I feel it coming—
That sharp, blinding edge—
Everything goes white.
Sound disappears.
My body locks, then breaks open all at once, the force of it pulling something out of me I can’t catch, can’t contain.
It’s too much.
It’s everything.
I shatter through it, breath gone, body trembling, every nerve still firing like it hasn’t realized it’s over.
August follows a second later, a rough, broken sound leaving him as his control finally gives, his grip tightening as he rides it out.
“Shit—” he rasps against my throat, the word low, wrecked.