Page 46 of Face Off
Coffee mugs forgotten on the counter, we sway together in our own orbit. He brushes his forehead against mine, our breath mingling together, and I shiver at the closeness, the heat, the way his hands rest on my hips, grounding me even as I feel like I’m floating.
“You’re trouble,” I murmur against his lips, half laughing, half breathless.
“And you like it,” he counters, voice teasing, low and dangerous, sending a shiver down my spine.
I bite my lip, trying to reclaim some composure, but it’s impossible. He leans in again, capturing my mouth in a kiss that leaves me dizzy, my thoughts scrambled. Every nerve ending seems alive, every touch magnified. His hands slide up my arms, gentle but firm, as if memorising the shape of me, while I clutch the back of his jacket like a lifeline.
We stumble backward toward the table, both of us laughing softly between kisses, the thrill of doing something reckless, something intimate, making my pulse race. His mouth is on mine again, insistent, claiming, and I feel a shiver of want that’s more than just desire, it’s recognition. He sees me. The real me. Not the “Tabloid Girl,” not the polished journalist, not the carefully curated version my father demands. Just me.
I gasp as he tilts my chin up, fingers trailing along my jaw. “I could do this forever,” he murmurs, eyes dark with need and amusement.
I laugh against him, breathless. “Forever would get exhausting.”
He grins, pressing his forehead to mine. “Good point. Maybe we pace ourselves.”
We break apart just enough to catch our breath, foreheads still touching. The tension doesn’t dissipate, it simmers, a magnetic pull that neither of us wants to release. I feel the warmth of his hands lingering on my waist, the echo of his lips against mine, and the quiet thrill of what we’ve started.
His hand slides underneath my top, his eyes seek my permission to continue and I grant it willing. When he cups my breast, allsense is lost. My hands grasp at his shirt, fumbling to undo buttons as his lips devour mine.
“Tell me to stop. If this isn’t what you want, stop me now.” His words are sincere but I don’t want this to end.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper as I lean in to kiss the column of his neck.
The noise that leaves his mouth is more of a growl. His hands move to cup by behind, lifting me onto the table as he pulls me closer still. I can feel the outline of his erection pressed against me.
My hands move down to pop open the buttons on his jeans and I slip a hand inside. Caressing him through his boxers.
“Chloe,” he mutters through stolen kisses. He makes short work of pushing my underwear aside and his fingers roam my flesh. Seconds later, I free him from his boxers and he lines himself up at my entrance. As he slides inside of me, our worlds collide.
It’s fast, messy, the opposite of perfect, but it’s real. Every movement, every gasp, every quiet sound that slips free. The rhythm of it pulls us under, two people losing and finding themselves all at once. And when it breaks, that wild, breathless rush, we go down together, tangled in the kind of chaos that feels like peace.
“Coffee?” I whisper, glancing at the forgotten mugs. My voice is teasing, but my heart is still hammering.
“Maybe later,” he says, smirking, his eyes drinking me in.
I roll my eyes, laughing. His presence is intoxicating, grounding and chaotic all at once.
We eventually pull back, both of us reluctantly, and I find myself smiling like a fool, cheeks hot. “You’re impossible,” I murmur.
“And you’re irresistible,” he replies, with that teasing glint in his eyes that makes me melt every time.
We take a few steps back from the table, and I feel the bittersweet ache. There’s still Murphy, the team, the unspoken rules of proximity and secrecy. But for now, in this kitchen, it’s just us. And that’s enough to make my chest ache with happiness and longing.
Ollie reaches for my hand. “You really are shameless,” I whisper, voice trembling with laughter and something more, something raw and real.
“Not shameless,” he corrects softly, thumb caressing the back of my hand. “Just honest. Honest about how I feel. About what I want.”
I swallow hard, heart hammering. “And what’s that?”
“You,” he says simply, eyes dark with something I can’t quite name but feel in my bones. “Just you.”
The honesty in his tone is thrilling and terrifying all at once. I know he’s hiding from the team, keeping this quiet, navigating a minefield of loyalty and boundaries, but in this moment, none of that matters. All that matters is us.
We finish our coffee in a companionable silence, hands brushing occasionally, lingering in the warmth of shared proximity. Every glance, every touch, every smirk fuels the tension, the heat, the unspoken promise that this is only the beginning.
When he eventually leaves, my hand lingers on the counter where his fingers brushed mine. The apartment feels empty now, but the air hums with the memory of him, of the kisses, the touches, the heat, and the laughter. I flop onto the couch, phone in hand, and dial Hannah.
She answers almost instantly, face lighting up the screen. “Well?? Tell me everything!”
