Between The Lines

CHAPTER FOUR: Desk Job

His mouth crashed into mine before I could take another breath.

There was no hesitation. No pause. No soft.

Just fire.

Callum’s hands were on my waist, my back, my thighs — pulling, pressing, claiming. I clutched his shirt like I needed it to survive. My knees hit the edge of the conference table, and he lifted me onto it like I weighed nothing.

“This isn’t smart,” I breathed, even as I wrapped my legs around his hips.

“I’m not feeling smart,” he growled against my neck.

He kissed down my throat, slow and rough, leaving a trail of heat behind. My blazer slipped from my shoulders. His fingers found the first button of my blouse and paused.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

“Say what?”

“That you want this.”

“I want this,” I said, instantly, shamelessly.

And then the buttons didn’t stand a chance.

He opened my blouse like a gift, eyes devouring me with a hunger that made my skin ache. One hand slid behind my back, unhooking my bra with practiced ease, and his mouth—

God.

His mouth made me forget my own name.

I arched into him, gasping as his lips closed around me, tasting, teasing, devouring like I was his last meal. The glass walls around us felt too open, too exposed — but that only made it worse. Or better. I couldn’t tell anymore.

“This is madness,” I whispered.

He looked up, mouth glistening, eyes feral. “No, Ember. This is inevitability.”

My skirt was next.

He pulled it up, not down — just enough. Enough to ruin my decency. Enough to wreck my professionalism. Enough to make me forget this was a place of work and not a fantasy playing out in a fever dream.

And when he dropped to his knees — CEO, billionaire, rule-maker — and disappeared beneath my skirt?

I shattered.

Every moan I swallowed. Every rule I broke. Every ounce of self-control I ever had… gone.

My fingers tangled in his hair, back arched against polished glass, as he made me come undone with his mouth. Thorough. Merciless. Addicted.

When he finally stood again, lips swollen and smug, I was trembling.

“I’m not done with you,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Then don’t stop.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

And I smiled. “Then I’ll die with you.”

The door stayed locked.

The table? Let’s just say no client presentation would ever feel the same again.