Page 145 of Hide From Me

“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.”

He fucks me through it. Through the confession. Through the way my voice breaks when I say his name. Through the third fucking orgasm that hits me like a freight train—sharp and sudden and so intense I nearly scream. My legs shake, body jerking against the desk, the edge of it biting into my ribs as I pulse around him.

He follows with a growl, moaning my name against the back of my neck as he thrusts once, twice more—then stills, hips twitching as he comes inside me. His hands tremble against my skin, holding on like he might break apart if he doesn’t.

We stay like that—slumped over the desk, breathless and tangled, skin damp with sweat and the aftershock of it all.

His breath ghosts over my shoulder as he huffs a laugh into my skin. “I’m never getting any work done here again.”

I grin, still breathless, wiggling my fingers against the desk and our fingers tangle instinctively like he knows exactly what I'm wanting because he does.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep bringing you lunch,” I murmur.

His laugh this time is quiet, but the way his thumb brushes over the back of my hand feels a lot like love, because itislove, even if I don’t say it as much as he does. He never seems to need the words as much as I do the touch, the steady reassurance in these small moments.

The weight of him still pressed over me, the way his fingers curl between mine like he’s trying to remind me I’m real, we’re real—thisis what speaks louder than anything I could ever say.

“Oh fuck, shit, bloody fucking—”

My head snaps up so fast I nearly knock into Moe’s chin, just in time to see Caspian slam the office door back shut with enough force to rattle the window blinds. My cheeks go hot, a furious shade of pink spreading all the way down my throat as panic kicks in, scrambling my limbs as I try to slide out from under Moe, who, of course, islaughing. Like his boss, hisbrother, didn’t just walk in on us mid-wreckage, half-dressed and breathless.

I grab the empty coffee cup Cordelia left on the floor and chuck it at Moe’s head, missing by an inch but making him laugh harder.

“You prick,” I hiss as I yank at my dress, trying to smooth it back into place with shaking hands.

Just as I lunge for my underwear, Moe’s already faster—snatching them up like they’re his prize, stuffing them into his pocket with a cocky grin like he’s got to have hissouvenir. Fine. Whatever. I’ll find them again when I do laundry later—if he doesn’t frame them first.

“Come in!” Moe calls brightly, like this is just another Wednesday, and Caspian—who had clearly only fled to recover mentally—swings the door open again, this time with his gaze locked stubbornly on the ceiling.

“We need to take a trip to Greenport,” he says, the words a little too fast, a little too clipped, like he’s trying to rush past the trauma of what he just witnessed. “Raylen can come. None of the other ladies will be participating in this mission, so… she’ll have company on their base or wherever the fuck the ladies pick to stay.”

My brows lift and mouth parts, ready to ask what the hell is going on—because Moe still looks too post-orgasmic and smug to register that this might beimportant—but before I can speak, Caspian’s eyes snap to the floor. No—at the desk. At the empty cup still rolling lazily in a circle where I threw it.

“Whose was that?” he asks, voice oddly sharp.

“I stay buried in mission reports. It’s mine. Now do you mind?” Moe mutters, tone flat and petulant, like he just got grounded.

Caspian’s jaw locks. His shoulders go stiff.

“Cordelia better not have been drinking that.”