Page 68 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

“Okay,” he admits, stretching the word with mock defeat and narrowing his eyes in playfully feigned shame. “I was going to have Cordelia pose as a fake buyer and stage some elaborate plan involving sharks, fire, and maybe a parachute.”

I blink. “Please tell me the shark wasn’t real.”

“That’s still under debate.”

He says it as if it’s not even remotely a joke—and with Cordelia involved, it might not be.

I shake my head, biting back a laugh, and loop my arms around his neck.

My fingers drift into the short hair at the nape of his neck, intertwining there as if to remind him he doesn’t need smoke and mirrors.

He doesn’t need explosions or military-grade distractions.

Just this. Just us. I rest my forehead against his, grounding us both.

“You know I don’t need the theatrics, right?” I whisper.

His breath brushes my skin as he exhales, his nose barely grazing mine. It’s intimate in the quietest way—a touch, a breath, a heartbeat syncing back into mine.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I wanted to get it right.”

“You already did.” I lean back just enough to meet his gaze, allowing him to see how much I mean it. “You came home.”

There’s something about those words— “came home” —that makes his arms tighten reflexively. He pulls me closer, pressing his face into the curve of my neck, and I feel the tension in him melt away. He smells of cedar, ozone, and a faint cologne that has soaked into his collar .

“And I’m staying,” he says against my skin, without hesitation or doubt.

His voice vibrates along my pulse point, and it feels like it sinks straight into my spine. Warmth floods my chest, but so does heat—the kind that coils low in my stomach when he doesn’t move, when he doesn’t shift away from where his hands have settled on my hips as if he owns them.

I adjust slightly in his lap, just a little—but it’s enough.

He groans low, guttural, and ragged. Like I’ve pulled something from him that he wasn’t prepared to give.

His fingers tighten, thumbs digging into my waist as he tilts his head back, jaw clenched.

“You keep doing that,” he warns, voice hoarse, “and I’m going to take you apart right here.”

My lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

His response is physical—his hand sliding up the length of my spine, fingertips dragging across the ridges of my vertebrae through the thin fabric of my dress.

“You bring me lunch like this,” he says, his voice low and rough, “wear this fucking dress in my office, and expect me not to ruin you?”

I lean in, brushing my lips to the shell of his ear, my teeth catching on the lobe before letting it go.

“Then ruin me,” I whisper, like a dare.

That’s all it takes.

He’s moving before the words have even settled in the air.

One second I’m in his lap, and the next I’m in his arms, legs wrapped around his waist, mouth on mine as he carries me the short distance to his desk.

The impact of my arse hitting the edge of the surface rattles the entire setup—papers shift, a half-empty coffee mug wobbles dangerously, and something metal clatters to the floor but none of it matters .

His mouth is everywhere—my lips, my jaw, the column of my throat. And then his hands are shoving up the hem of my dress, baring me inch by inch until it’s bunched at my waist.

“Fuck, I missed this dress,” he mutters, his voice darker now, almost reverent. He lifts the edge higher, and when he sees what’s underneath—black lace, nothing else—his breath catches. His eyes flick up to mine, heat roaring behind them.

“You wore this for me.”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A reward. A plea.

“I might’ve had an idea how this would go,” I murmur, arching my hips just enough to grind against the hardness straining behind his zipper.

His mouth crashes into mine before I can say anything else. The kiss is feral—tongue and teeth and hunger as he fists the fabric of my dress, pushing it higher and higher until he finds the wet heat between my thighs.

“Already soaked,” he groans, swiping a thick finger through my folds, slow and teasing. His thumb circles my clit with just enough pressure to make me jerk. “You’ve been walking around base like this?”

“I’m covered!” I gasp, breath stuttering as he dips lower.

“That dress isn’t going to save you.”

He drops to his knees like he’s done it a thousand times before–like he was made to worship this way–and pulls me closer to the edge of the desk, lifting one of my legs, throwing it over his shoulder.

My breath punches out of me as his tongue drags through every inch of me, slow and possessive, like he’s starving for it.

Like I’m the only thing that’s ever satisfied him.

“Fuck—Moe—” My voice breaks as my hand scrambles for purchase, catching the edge of the desk to keep from sliding off entirely. The wood digs into my palm, grounding me, but barely.

His grip tightens on my thighs, fingers bruising in the best kind of way as he anchors me in place. His moan vibrates against my clit and the sound shudders through my whole body like a live wire, lighting up my spine until I can’t tell where the shaking starts or ends.

Then he’s devouring me.

Not just licking, not just teasing—devouring.

Like this is what he was made for. Like he wants to memorize me with his mouth.

His tongue moves slowly at first, savoring every twitch, every breathy gasp that escapes me.

He traces patterns over my clit, flicking and pressing, coaxing and controlling, until my hips can’t stay still.

And then— God —he picks up speed. Faster.

Harder. More focused. More desperate. He wants me undone. Wants to taste what he’s doing to me.

I cry out, voice raw and unfiltered, one hand clutching the edge of the desk, the other buried deep in his hair, holding on like I’ll fly apart if I let go.

My legs lock around his shoulders, trembling with the force of it.

It hits fast, sharp, a wave of heat that knocks the air right out of my lungs as I come, hard, my whole body arching against his face but he doesn’t stop.

“Need another,” he growls against me, voice wrecked and determined. “Give me another, baby.”

I’m already boneless, too far gone to even think about saying no.

His fingers slide inside me—two of them, thick and curling just right—and I’m gone all over again.

His mouth never leaves me. His tongue keeps moving, relentless, tracing circles and sucking at the most sensitive parts of me like he’s got nowhere else to be, like dragging another orgasm out of me is his life’s purpose.

I whimper his name—over and over, barely audible, strung out between gasps and curses. My second climax is messier, drawn out, my whole body twitching under the weight of it. I sag back, chest heaving, thighs trembling around his shoulders.

When he finally stands, he looks wrecked in the best way—hair a mess, lips swollen, mouth glistening with pupils blown and burning with pride, hunger, and something feral beneath it all.

I don’t give him time to gloat .

I lunge for his belt, yanking it open with fingers still shaking from pleasure. “My turn.”

His head tips back, a cocky grin flashing across his face for half a second before I slip from the desk and drop to my knees in front of him.

I pull him free—hard, flushed, already leaking—and wrap my hand around the base. The weight of him in my palm makes heat curl in my belly again, even though I haven’t fully come down. What can I say? I'm addicted to his dick.

I stroke once, relishing in the way he lets out a shaky breath. Then twice, but slower this time so he gets that tension in his jaw that makes me want to lick the stubble there. Slowly, I lean in and drag my tongue over the tip, tasting him with a satisfied hum.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice hoarse. His hand finds the back of my head, not pushing—just anchoring like he needs something to hold onto.

I take him deeper, inch by inch, letting him feel every bit of it as I hollow my cheeks and suck harder. My hand moves in sync with my mouth, twisting at the base, working him with practiced ease. He groans, loud and raw, one hand falling to the edge of the desk for balance.

“You’re going to kill me,” he rasps.

I hum around him and smile at the ripple of pleasure that jolts through his body.

His hips twitch, and a string of curse words tumbles out—some American, some carrying that British lilt I love.

I don’t stop. I drag my tongue along the underside of his cock, then take him deeper again, letting him hit the back of my throat until his knees nearly buckle.

When I finally pull back, I lick my lips and smirk up at him. “You started it.”

He doesn’t even respond—just hauls me up like I weigh nothing and crashes his mouth to mine. The kiss is wild, claiming, desperate as his hands find my hips, spinning me and bending me over the desk before I can blink.

The cool surface bites into my skin as my hands fly out, bracing the impact.

“I’m going to make you scream,” he promises, voice guttural—and then he thrusts into me in one long, deep stroke that knocks the air from my lungs .

We both moan. The sound echoes off the walls, filling the small office with heat and want and everything we don't bother holding back anymore.

His pace is punishing from the start. Hard. Fast. Relentless. His hands grip my hips like they’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart and my nails scrape against the desk as he pounds into me, fucking me like he needs it to breathe.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he groans, thrusts faltering for just a beat as he buries himself deeper. “And sin. And all fucking mine.”

“I’m yours,” I gasp, the words falling out between ragged breaths. “God, Moe—I’m yours.”