Page 55 of Face Off
CHLOE
The door clicks shut behind us, and before I can even think about flicking the lock, Ollie’s mouth is on mine.
It’s like every ounce of restraint we managed through dinner snaps the second we’re alone. His hands are everywhere, tugging at my coat, dragging it down my arms, pressing me back until my shoulders hit the wall. I laugh into his kiss, breathless and startled, and then I’m moaning because his tongue slides against mine, tasting like wine, want, and him.
“Ollie,” I gasp, fumbling behind me for the light switch, but he catches my wrist, pinning it above my head.
“No lights,” he mutters against my mouth, low and urgent. “I want you now.”
His shirt is bunched in my fists one second, yanked open the next, and then his T-shirt’s gone too. My nails scratch his chest, and he groans like he’s being set on fire.
He drops to his knees, and I nearly stumble in surprise, but his mouth is on me, and I’m gone. My pulse rockets as his hands shove my dress up, peeling away my knickers in one swift, practiced motion. My thoughts are fragmented, this is reckless,this is insane, this is exactly what I’ve wanted, but there’s no time for overthinking.
“Ollie…God…” My thighs tremble around him, and he grips my hips to keep me steady.
“Hold still,” he hisses, voice rough, and I do, because I trust him implicitly even as my brain spins. His mouth moves with such fevered precision, every touch like it’s memorising me, claiming me, making me his.
I’m moaning his name before I even know I’ve started, my hands tugging at his hair, scratching at the skin of his shoulders, desperate for more of him. He growls low in response, eyes dark and hungry as he presses against me, the wall a solid anchor for the chaos of sensation he’s ignited.
When I come the first time, it’s sharp, leaving me breathless, trembling against him, and he groans, rough and guttural, letting the sound fill the hallway. I barely have time to recover before he’s on his feet again, jeans shoved low, condom wrapper torn with his teeth, and he’s pressing himself into me with a shove that takes my breath away.
“Not done,” he murmurs, eyes dark, voice loaded with need, and then he’s inside me in one perfect, scorching thrust.
I cry out, clutching his shoulders as he drives into me, fast and hard, hips slamming me against the wall. My nails score his back and shoulders, and he hisses but doesn’t relent. It’s frantic and chaotic, and I’m loving every second.
Every thought I’ve ever had about him, every longing I’d shoved aside, crashes in. I’m moaning, gasping, tearing at his skin, but it’s not enough. His hands clutch my hips, my waist, my back, grounding me even as the rest of the world disappears.
He’s groaning, whispering my name against my mouth, and when I come again, the second time, its explosive, all-consuming, a gasp that leaves my voice raw. And he followsimmediately, trembling into me, eyes closed, mouth pressed to my shoulder.
We stay pinned together against the wall, both of us panting, shaking, laughing breathlessly at the madness of it all.
“Well,” I manage between gasps, pressing a hand to my flushed face, “guess we didn’t need the sofa after all.”
Ollie smirks, leaning in to steal another soft, lingering kiss. “Hallway’s underrated,” he says, voice still rough but with a teasing lilt.
I shove his chest lightly, but I’m smiling, heat coursing through me. He grabs my hand and drags me a step forward, murmuring, “You’re insane.”
“And you love it,” I counter, voice trembling with laughter and need.
We shuffle into the flat properly, both of us barely able to keep our hands off each other. I tug off the rest of my clothes; he sheds the last of his jeans and boxers. The air is thick, heavy with heat, our breaths mingling, hearts hammering.
We collapse onto the sofa, bodies tangled, and suddenly the frenzy of the hallway is replaced by something softer, slower. He brushes a damp strand of hair from my face, thumb caressing my cheek, eyes dark and intense but tender.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low, almost vulnerable.
I nod, leaning into him. “Perfect.”
We lie there, limbs intertwined, catching our breath, his hand moving over my back, mine tracing lines over his chest. There’s laughter in the pause, soft teasing about our reckless speed, about how we should probably consider a door mat for next time.
“You know,” he says, voice playful now, “I think breakfast would be safer if we didn’t have to destroy the hallway.”
I laugh softly, cheeks burning. “I’m warning you, Ollie. I make a mean pancake, but I can’t be responsible for any more impromptu wall acrobatics.”
He nuzzles my neck, nose brushing my hair, and grins. “Then pancakes it is. You cook, I’ll clean up after we inevitably repeat this chaos.”
There’s a long, comfortable silence. My head rests on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the gentle warmth radiating off him. I feel safe, absurdly, deliciously safe, despite the wild, frantic end to the evening.
“You’re really something,” I murmur, voice soft.
