Page 231 of Make the Play

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The second the boardroom door shuts behind us, Chase grabs the crook of my elbow.

“Where are we—”

He doesn’t answer, just pivots and steers me down the hallway of my own damn workplace, cutting through Pulse employees with his signature grin and zero shame.

“Chase,” I hiss, heels clicking. “What are you doing?”

“Executing an urgent priority.”

“We are in my place of work—”

“Exactly. And I just told a table full of executives that I’m in love with you, so this feels wildly appropriate.”

He swings my office door open, kicks it shut behind us, and pins me to it before I can even form a comeback.

“You’re out of your mind.”

Humming softly, he tilts his head to mine. “And you’re the only one who’s ever made me grateful for it.”

His mouth crashes to mine, and his hands are everywhere—one gripping my jaw and stroking my cheek, the other anchoring my hip, fingers splayed wide to claim me.

I moan against his mouth, and it only makes him worse.

“You’re trouble,” I murmur, dizzy from the rush.

“You walked into that boardroom and told a room of suits you wouldn’t be their collateral damage. I nearly proposed on the spot.”

“Be serious.”

“I am,” he breathes. “I’m always serious about you.”

His mouth drags down my neck, tongue tracing the pulse hammering beneath my skin. I gasp as his teeth scrape gently over the spot, then bite down just hard enough to make my knees buckle. I clutch at his hoodie, dragging it up his back and raking my nails over bare skin, greedy for the heat of him.

He groans into my throat, one hand fisting the hem of my blazer to tug me closer. His hips press into mine, and I can feel everything—every inch of him, hard and aching and entirely mine.

I push back, fast and breathless, grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him hard enough to bruise. His lips part beneath mine, and I don’t wait, I take. Tongue, teeth, the soft grunt he makes when I suck his bottom lip between mine.

“Fuck, Zo,” he mutters. “You keep doing that and I’m gonna bend you over your desk.”

I shove him back toward the couch, but he barely stumbles before spinning us, grabbing my waist and lifting me onto the edge of the desk. Pens scatter and note paper flies like confetti. My blazer slides off one shoulder as he wedges himself between my thighs, hands everywhere.

“I’m still at work,” I pant.

“Then consider this an official workplace wellness check.”

He drops to his knees like he’s the sinner and I’m the altar. Like he’s never known a more natural position than worshipping at my feet, hands braced on my thighs, head tilted up with a devastating grin.

But I grab his collar and tug him back up, lips inches from his, breath hot and ragged. “Not here.”

“Mm, thank fuck,” he groans, crashing his mouth back to mine, one hand braced behind my head, the other sliding up my thigh. “Because I was about to make us both a problem for HR.”

“You already are.”

“And you love it.”

“I love you.”

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