Page 9 of Surprise Me Tonight (Claimed on Sight #1)

Callum

T he treadmill screams beneath me. My legs are burning. Sweat’s pouring down my back. None of it is helping.

I kissed her.

Fuck! Fucking hell!

I crank up the incline, push harder. Every part of me hurts, but my brain’s still louder than the machine.

What the hell was I thinking?

That kiss — right there in the pub, in front of half the village, in front of whoever the fuck that guy was. Some bloke who had her cornered, grabbing her wrist, talking to her like she was nothing. I don’t know who he is. Didn’t care. Still don’t.

All I knew was she looked cornered. Like she wanted to vanish. And that bastard had his hand on her.

And I—

I couldn’t stand it.

I stepped in. Said something. He said something worse. Called her a slut, made some crack about her being old. And then I—

Fucking hell.

I kissed her.

Like some caveman trying to make a point. Mark his territory. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t think. I reacted .

And it felt—

Fuck.

I shouldn’t even think about how it felt. Her mouth on mine. The way she didn’t pull away. The way she looked at me afterward, like the whole room had dropped away and it was just us.

But it doesn’t matter.

It was a mistake.

A massive, inappropriate, unprofessional fucking mistake.

I pound the treadmill harder. Still not enough. Not even close.

Jess is going to murder me. Or worse — be disappointed in that calm, clipped voice she reserves for when I’ve really cocked something up. Stella probably won’t even show up today. Why would she? Her boss manhandled her face and kissed her like she was his to claim.

Because she looked vulnerable?

Because she looked beautiful?

Because something in me snapped when that arsehole laid a hand on her?

After I had escorted Stella away from the wanker, Jasper and I left the pub.

Jasper let out a short laugh, then shook his head. “Bloody hell, mate. Kissing your PA in the middle of the pub? People will still be talking at Christmas. ”

His grin faded as quick as it came. “But seriously. You need to think about this. You’re her boss. People will talk, and she’s the one they’ll be talking about.”

“I don’t even know why I did it,” I said, though the words felt thin. I did know. Part of me wanted to claim her, right there in front of that twat. But that wasn’t exactly a defence, was it.

“She didn’t push me away.”

“Maybe she froze. Maybe she liked it. Maybe she didn’t know how to react.” He leaned forward, all trace of humour gone. “You don’t know, mate, because you didn’t ask. And you need to. This isn’t just about you.”

And he was right.

But she kissed me back. I’m sure of it. The way her mouth parted under mine, the way her hand brushed against my chest before she seemed to realise what she was doing. That wasn’t freezing. That wasn’t nothing.

It’s been years since I’ve felt a kiss like that — sharp, urgent, like a live wire under my skin. For a second the whole bloody pub disappeared. No noise, no eyes on us, just her lips, soft and unsteady against mine, and the rush of heat that went straight through me.

Fuck, I wanted more. Still do.

I hit stop and the treadmill slows beneath me. I step off, panting, drenched in sweat, absolutely no closer to a solution than when I started.

If she doesn’t quit, I’ll be amazed.

If she complains, she has every right.

And if she doesn’t say anything at all?

That might be the worst outcome of all.

The shower is scalding, yet it doesn’t help either. Nothing seems to be able to erase that kiss from my memory. I was hoping the shower would at least loosen the tight coil in my chest.

It doesn’t.

By the time I get downstairs, dressed in a clean shirt and jeans, I’m still wound too tight. Still playing back last night like some hungover idiot who can’t believe what he said. What he did .

I should check in with Jess to see if she’s heard from Stella. But as I near the office, I hear the familiar sounds of someone working in the small conference room, the space that also serves as Stella’s office.

Stella is at the meeting table, her laptop open, mine set up in front of the monitor. She’s efficient, focused, like nothing happened yesterday. Maybe that’s her decision right there — to put it in a box, keep working, and not let me be the reason she walks away.

I stop in the doorway.

She doesn’t look up.

She’s wearing simple black trousers. A white blouse. Cardigan over the top. No form-fitted dress. Just efficient, clean lines. Professional. Untouchable.

Is that the message? Loud and clear? Back off?

She finally glances my way, calm as you like.

“Good morning,” she says with a smile.

I pause. “Morning.” If she thinks her mumsy clothes are enough to put me off, she’s wrong. I’ve seen what she’s hiding, and I can’t forget it.

I also can’t let it go. We need to clear the air. I need to know where I stand. Is she about to cause a scene on our call with Jess? Is she planning to resign?

I clear my throat. “About last night—”

But the monitor pings and the team starts appearing on screen… Luciana, Jess, two of our project leads, everyone smiling and ready to dive into the week.

I bite the words back.

“Callum,” Jess says, nodding. “Morning. Looks like we’ve got a full house.”

“Yep,” I mutter, sinking into my chair, eyes flicking to Stella as she quietly shifts to the far side of the desk, just out of camera shot.

Her fingers fly across her keyboard, already taking notes.

I try to focus. I try to listen to Luciana’s update on some prototype snag, but my eyes keep dragging back to Stella.

The way she sits. The line of her jaw. The calm, careful way she never once looks at me directly.

The cardigan is soft grey, buttoned high. The trousers are neatly pressed.

Yesterday she was all soft curves in that green dress, flushed cheeks and parted lips.

Today, she’s steel.

This is her line in the sand, isn’t it?

The moment the screen goes black, the air in the room feels twice as thick.

Stella closes her laptop with quiet efficiency. She straightens, glances at me, and hesitates. Then she speaks, voice low.

“Thank you. For last night. For stepping in.”

I nod, trying to keep my voice even. “That…. wanker. Who was he?”

There’s a pause.

“My ex-husband.”

“Has he always been such a prick? ”

She snorts. It’s soft, half-bitter. “More or less. He always made it clear I was lucky to have him. That I should lower my expectations. That I wasn’t much of a catch.”

I clench my jaw. The taste in my mouth turns metallic.

She shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “He might’ve had a point about the dress, though. Bit much for someone my age. Would you like a cuppa?” She heads towards the door.

I move before I can stop myself. I step forward, hand rising instinctively. I press my palm, gently, to the front of her stomach. Just enough to stop her from walking past me.

She stiffens.

But she doesn’t move away.

My voice is quiet. “He was wrong. About the dress. About all of it.”

Her eyes meet mine. Something in them flickers — doubt, hope, maybe a challenge.

“Cardigans, dresses… none of it matters. You’ve got a beauty that isn’t simple, it’s deeper. The sort that pulls me in and won’t let me go. And if your ex couldn’t see that, it’s only because he never looked close enough.”

She swallows. Breath shaky.

“You probably shouldn’t say things like that to me,” she whispers.

But there’s no bite in it. No retreat.

Only heat.

I lean in, just close enough that she feels it, hears it.

“What I shouldn’t tell you is that I can’t stop thinking about bending you over my desk and having you.”

Her lips part.

Her breath catches .

And then, just as she starts to walk past, she leans in — close to my ear, soft as sin.

“Maybe you’re not the only one with those thoughts.”

And then she’s gone.

I just stand there.

Motionless.

Except for the part of me that’s very much not still.

Blood’s pumping hot through every inch of my body, settling hard and heavy in the worst possible place. My cock’s straining against my trousers and all I can think about is the sound of her voice in my ear — that breathy whisper like she meant it, like she’d been holding it back for days.

I walk into my office.

Shut the door.

Drag a hand over my face.

Fuck!

She’s just down the corridor and all it would take is one step. One push. One moment where I let go of every line I’m still trying to keep between us.

I sit down and stare at my screen, not seeing a single thing. My trousers are uncomfortable. My patience is gone. My self-control is hanging by a fucking thread.

I’m still hard when I hear her footsteps coming down the hall.

Soft. Hesitant.

I stand.

My voice is calm, somehow. “Stella. In here.”

There’s a beat. Then the door creaks open.

She steps in, eyes wide. Cheeks flushed. Like she’s been pacing the same fire I have. She opens her mouth.

“I shouldn’t have said that, I—”

“Did you mean it?” I ask.

I watch her falter. Her gaze drops. She fiddles with the hem of her cardigan like it might save her.

“Stella.”

She looks up.

I take two steps. Cage her in against the wall. One hand flat beside her head, the other not quite touching her waist. I’m not holding her. Not yet.

“Look at me.”

She does.

Eyes wide. Chest rising and falling a little too fast.

“I’m going to ask you again,” I say, voice low. “Did you mean it?”

She opens her mouth. Then closes it again.

And that’s my answer.

Silence.

But not rejection.

Not fear.

Just fire. Building.

Waiting.

She doesn’t speak.

But her eyes say everything.

I move in, closing the space between us, hand brushing her waist, then the side of her neck — soft skin, flushed and warm. Her breath catches, and that’s all I need.

I kiss her.

No hesitation this time. No second-guessing.

She makes a sound against my mouth — a half gasp, half moan — and it shoots straight through me.