Undone Rules of work

"Forbidden love, stolen moments, and a passion that could cost everything.

Sweet Coconut Trouble



He wasn't on her radar, the moment she walked in.



Not really.



She made assumptions about him.



Young. Sharp. All business.



She'd seen guys like him before--assistant managers who didn't stick around.



He’d be there six months tops, she thought. Then on to the next paycheck, the next store, the next thing.



Why would a younger man be interested in someone like her?



They didn't look twice at girls like her.



So she didn't let herself hope.



This stared during COVID.



Masks on. Faces hidden.



All they had was eye contact.



But somehow, it was enough.



It felt stronger--like they were holding onto something fragile, sacred.



Like the mystery behind the mask only made the tension more electric.



There was something about him.



Something simmering under all that formality.



It made her heart skip every time he walked by.



Their first conversation had been casual. Work-related.



But when she walked away, she could feel his eyes on her.



She caught him watching once. Just once.



And she smiled to herself all day after that.



From then on, it became a pattern--stolen glances, quiet tension,



moments that lingered longer than they should.



Nothing inappropriate. Nothing you could report. But everything you could feel in your bones.



She told herself it was fine. Just a work crush.



A little distraction in the middle of long shifts and longer hours.



But she kept finding excuses to be near him.



Asking about schedules. Offering help.



Laughing at his terrible jokes when no one else would.



She wasn't the only one pretending.



Not really.















Under the Hot Light











Most of the staff thought of him as all-business, maybe even a little cold — a man of granite. That was fine with him. He’d learned to live with it. Still, showing up at the company party felt expected. Professional. Just part of the job.









He hadn’t planned to stay long — just enough to be seen, maybe nurse a drink like a prop in a play.









That plan evaporated the instant she stepped onto the stage. His gaze locked onto hers as she glided past him. Her perfume — warm, sweet, a siren’s call of coconut — enveloped him like a haunting memory or a forbidden temptation. He couldn't tell which, only that he craved another breath of it like a drowning man craves air. She was breathtaking, a force of nature draped in black, radiating confidence. Her hair was artfully tousled, her eyes smudged with liner that spoke of mysteries untold. And—for the first time—he truly saw her. No glasses, no uniform, no name tag. Just her, in her element. She looked like she belonged under the spotlight, not confined to a desk in a fluorescent-lit office. In that electrifying moment, every reason not to stare evaporated from his mind. Before he realized it, he found himself sitting front row, mesmerized. And she—she noticed. She couldn't suppress the smile playing on her lips. This wasn't the shy, clumsy girl everyone knew from the office. This was her on stage—her alter ego unleashed. And for the first time, she felt gloriously visible.











Santa Baby











This wasn’t the band’s first office Christmas party, and every year when Santa Baby played, it was tradition to pull someone from the audience onstage. She usually went for someone safe—a manager’s husband, a shy intern, someone who’d laugh it off. Hell, even a band member. But tonight? The crowd had other ideas.









His name reverberated through the room—chanting, teasing, relentless, like a drumbeat that wouldn't stop.









She swore she wasn’t going to do it. Really, she wasn’t. Okay… maybe it had crossed her mind. Just for fun. Just to envision his reaction.









She slipped offstage and leaned in close, her voice a whisper of temptation. “This would be good for your image… but no pressure.”









Somehow, against all odds, he followed her.









And then he was on stage.









Before he could even fully grasp the whirlwind around him, she took his hand and led him to the chair. The lights blazed, the band roared, the crowd surged—it all blurred into a fever dream. All he could see was her.









She began to sing, sultry and sweet, a siren's call, playful but never crossing the line. Yet each note felt as if it were scorching the buttons off his shirt.









When she perched on his lap, he went rigid—every muscle coiled with restraint. She could feel the tension rippling through his thighs, the vice-like grip of his fingers on her waist, anchoring himself as if he were trying not to drift into oblivion.























Under the Mistletoe









Even before tonight--









Even before the very public lap dance--









She'd always managed to draw something out of him.









Something that didn't exist at work.









He told himself he was just going to make a quick appearance.









Pop in. Say hi. Leave.









But instead, he bolted for the bar.









She performed one more song, heart racing the entire time.









She still thought he was gone.









After the set ended, she needed a drink. Desperately.









But then--she saw him.









At the bar.









And he saw her.









Their eyes met.









And suddenly it was quiet.









The music. The noise. The party.









All of it dropped out.









She hadn't even noticed the mistletoe until someone called it out.









His name.









Then hers.









People laughed. Teased.









She barely heard them.









He looked up. She looked back. And for the first time... neither of them ran.









One step forward.









Then another.









The air between them buzzed.









Like they were caught in something bigger than the room.









He reached for her first.









One hand on her waist. The other, her jaw.









And then he kissed her.









Slow. Deliberate. Like he meant every second of it.









Like he'd been holding back and couldn't anymore.









She melted.









Because this wasn't part of the game.









This wasn't a dare. Or a joke. Or office tension.









This was real.









And when he finally pulled back, she was still holding her breath.









They thought they could go back to normal after one kiss.









But the line between work and want?









It was already gone.











She thought maybe things would feel different after the kiss.



And they did.



Just not in the way she expected.



No midnight texts. No shift-long stares. No whispered, 'Hey, can we talk?'



He didn’t ignore her exactly—



But he didn’t lean in either.



And she didn’t know if that made it better or worse.



Because the truth was…She still felt his lips on hers.



Still remembered the way his hand had settled on her waist—



Firm. Certain. Hungry. Like he’d been waiting months for that moment.



And yeah—maybe she imagined it—



But she could’ve sworn she felt his keys in his pocket.



Which meant...



Yeah. That hadn’t been just a kiss.



But now?



He was quiet. Professional. Safe.



And she was stuck wondering if the kiss meant everything to her—



And nothing to him.















She thought maybe things would feel different after the kiss.

And they did.

Just not in the way she expected.

No midnight texts. No shift-long stares. No whispered, 'Hey, can we talk?'

He didn’t ignore her exactly—

But he didn’t lean in either.

And she didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

Because the truth was…She still felt his lips on hers.

Still remembered the way his hand had settled on her waist—

Firm. Certain. Hungry. Like he’d been waiting months for that moment.

And yeah—maybe she imagined it—

But she could’ve sworn she felt his keys in his pocket.

Which meant...

Yeah. That hadn’t been just a kiss. But now?

He was quiet. Professional. Safe.

And she was stuck wondering if the kiss meant everything to her—

And nothing to him.















Yearning into the New Year







They worked together during the day but barely saw each other.



Neither of them knew if it was because they were both genuinely busy...



or just avoiding what was between them.



The post-holiday rush had finally eased.



And now she was back on stage--where everything made more sense.



Except him.



The venue was packed. Loud. Her setlist already felt too long.



But it was New Year's Eve. The band had booked it months ago, and she



wasn't going to back out now.



She kept telling herself this was good.



Distraction. Focus. Noise.



Still...



Somewhere, deep down--



she'd hoped.



A stupid, quiet hope that he might show up.



She didn't know how. Didn't know why.



But she'd thought about it.



Wished for it.



The way you wish on stars, or birthday candles, or Christmas lights.



And then she saw him.



Over by the bar.



In those jeans.



*Fuck* those jeans.



Just the thought of him in them turned her on.



She forgot the next lyric. And the one after that.



She barely made it through the rest of the set.



The second it ended, she rushed to the bar, needing a drink.



A reset. A breath.



And that's when she saw him.



Right next to her.



*Fuck.*



"Hey," he said, casual and warm like he hadn't just flipped her inside out.



"You sound great tonight."



"Hey," she managed. "I didn't expect to see you here."



"Yeah," he smiled. "I didn't know you were playing. But... definitely a good



surprise."



She smiled. Blushed.



And he leaned in--just a little.



But before anything could happen, her bandmates called her back to the



stage.



"Later," she said, breathless, trying not to trip over her own heart.



---



The countdown started after the last song.



She searched the room.



*5... 4... 3... 2...*



She found him.*1.*



And then--



he kissed her.



Like he meant it.



Like nothing else in the room existed.



His tongue brushed her lip, asking.



She let him in.



She didn't even think.



Her body answered for her.



The feel of his hands.



The heat of him.



The way she melted into it like they were built for this.



"Tell me to stop," he whispered against her mouth.



"I can't," she breathed.



His hands slid beneath her shirt.



She gasped, heart racing.



"Not here," she whispered.



He nodded.



Grabbed her hand.



And just like that, they were gone.















She thought maybe things would feel different after the kiss.





And they did.





Just not in the way she expected.





No midnight texts. No shift-long stares. No whispered, 'Hey, can we talk?'





He didn’t ignore her exactly—





But he didn’t lean in either.





And she didn’t know if that made it better or worse.





Because the truth was…She still felt his lips on hers.





Still remembered the way his hand had settled on her waist—





Firm. Certain. Hungry. Like he’d been waiting months for that moment.





And yeah—maybe she imagined it—





But she could’ve sworn she felt his keys in his pocket.





Which meant...





Yeah. That hadn’t been just a kiss.





But now?





He was quiet. Professional. Safe.





And she was stuck wondering if the kiss meant everything to her—





And nothing to him.













After Midnight











She yanked him by the collar and crashed her lips onto his. Heat scorched her cheeks. “I’ve wanted this since—well, forever,” she rasped against him. He answered with a low murmur, eyes hooded, just before she kissed him again. “Then don’t stop,” she whispered, yanking open the car door and hauling him inside.



The door slammed, a thunderclap in the silence. They jumped apart—then laughed, breathless, but neither let go. She straddled him without apology, her weight firm and certain. His hands drifted over her back and shoulders, tentative, reverent. She shook her head. She needed bold. Now.



She ground her hips down. His sharp inhale pressed against her core. That was all the invitation she needed. Coconut-sweet warmth clung to her skin, wild and intoxicating. She felt his eyes roll back, felt his pulse spike beneath her. Good. Her fingers yanked at his belt while he fumbled the seatback. It was clumsy. It was messy. It was real. It was theirs.



Clothes pooled at their feet. No time for ceremony. She sank down, breath hitching, muscles coiling around him. He groaned, head tipping back, and she drove him harder. She kept the rhythm savage and sure, every thrust her declaration: I want this. I need this.



Shoulders braced, teeth sinking into her lip, she rode the blaze building inside her. Her world narrowed to the rise and fall of his chest, the raw sound tearing from his throat. When she exploded, the fire ripped through her in fierce waves. She clung to him, let the tremors spill over them both. His guttural cry was a combustible echo in the cramped car. Almost—so damn close—she’d have come again on that sound alone.



At last they stilled. Fog claimed the windows. Their skin glistened; hearts pounded warily back to earth. She brushed her forehead to his. He whispered, “Shit.” She smiled, breath hot. “Happy New Year.” His grin was stunned, unsteady. “Yeah,” he croaked. “That was one hell of a celebration.”



She took the week off to help her brother move. That was the story. He did need her strength—but she had other reasons. She needed to flee. To clear her head. To stop the relentless ache in her chest.



She told herself it was holiday madness. Twinkle lights and champagne make us stupid, right? But if she faced the truth, she’d torn everything apart. Not just her job—his life. His career, his reputation, everything spilling out over a reckless lap dance and that damned mistletoe kiss.



She kept hoping it would fade—this guilt, this fear. But it clung to her like a second skin. And now? She braced herself for the fallout. Unsure who—or what—would still be waiting when she got back.











No Touching (No Promises)







The weekend had been a chaotic mix of cold showers and restless dreams. She had bolted after the kiss, torn between fear of what might follow and the thrill of it. But Monday inevitably arrived, as it always does, and she realized she couldn't evade him forever. Not when they worked in the same building, in the same department. Could they maintain professionalism? She tried valiantly, but each glance of him sent her stomach into a tumultuous dance, a storm of emotions. And every time he casually rolled his shoulder, she was unwillingly transported back to those intimate moments, to the way he had moved beneath her with a slow, deliberate grace, deep and rhythmic, as if he instinctively understood the cadence of her soul. A sudden crash from the backroom jolted her from her reverie. One of the new hires had toppled a precarious tower of seasonal displays, the colorful avalanche creating a chaotic mess. Was this a stroke of luck or misfortune? She couldn't discern anymore. Somehow, she managed to stumble through the remainder of the day under the thin guise of normalcy. Polite. Professional. Even cordial. Yet the emotional distance gnawed at her, a persistent ache. She began to wonder if he regretted everything that had transpired. Perhaps the risk was too great for him. Maybe the risk had scared him off. And truthfully? She understood. Office romances—even if not explicitly against company policy—were certainly frowned upon. Especially for someone of his stature. Someone who aspired to be taken seriously. Still... she missed him. Missed the playful exchanges that had once filled her days with laughter. Missed the feeling of being seen, of not fading into invisibility. What she didn't realize was that he was grappling with the same inner turmoil, locked in his own battle between desire and duty.The weekend had been a swirling tempest of cold showers and feverish dreams. She had fled after the kiss, torn apart by the fear of what might follow and the exhilarating thrill that coursed through her veins. But Monday arrived with its relentless inevitability, and she knew she couldn't escape him forever. Not when they shared the same building, the same department. Could they possibly maintain professionalism? She fought valiantly, but each glance of him sent her stomach into a hurricane of emotions clawing at her insides. Every time he nonchalantly rolled his shoulder, she was unwillingly dragged back to those intimate moments, to the way he moved beneath her with a slow, deliberate grace, deep and rhythmic, as if he instinctively understood the very cadence of her soul. A sudden crash from the backroom shattered her reverie. One of the new hires had toppled a fragile tower of seasonal displays, the colorful avalanche erupting into chaos. Was this a stroke of luck or misfortune? She couldn't tell anymore. Somehow, she stumbled through the remainder of the day under the flimsy façade of normalcy. Polite. Professional. Even cordial. Yet the emotional chasm gnawed at her, a relentless ache. She began to wonder if he regretted everything that had transpired. Perhaps the risk was too immense for him. Maybe the peril had frightened him away. And truthfully? She understood. Office romances—even if not explicitly prohibited—were heavily frowned upon. Especially for someone of his standing. Someone who had worked so hard to be taken seriously. Yet... she missed him. Missed the playful exchanges that had once filled her days with laughter. Missed the feeling of being truly seen, of not fading into invisibility. What she didn't realize was that he was ensnared in the same fierce inner turmoil, locked in his own battle between desire and duty.











She took the week off to help her brother move.









That was the excuse.









And yeah, he needed the help—





But really?









She needed to breathe.





To step away.





To find her damn mind again.









She tried to tell herself it was just the holidays.





That everything had been heightened.





That people do reckless things when they’re surrounded by twinkle lights and champagne.









But if she was honest with herself?









She knew she’d ruined everything.









Not just her job.





But his.









His career. His reputation. His whole life—spun out over a PG-13 lap dance and a dared mistletoe kiss.









She wanted to believe it would blow over.





That it didn’t mean anything.









But it did.









At least to her.









And now?





She wasn’t sure what would be waiting when she got back.





If anything at all.















On the Verge of Fired





He’d slipped back into being the “buttoned-up” assistant manager everyone expected. She’d put on the face of a calm, competent employee who never made waves. Outwardly, they played their parts. Inwardly, they were both unraveling. She began timing her break-room visits just early enough to miss him. He started circling the back corridor so he wouldn’t have to pass her desk. Every step felt like dodging something impossible to ignore. And still, whenever the hallway cleared, she found herself glancing for him, heart doing that familiar flip.



Then one day she spotted a small slip of paper in her locker. No signature—just his unmistakable chicken scratch: Come to my office. Her pulse skittered. Her lungs clenched. Fear and desire warred inside her, but she went. She opened the door and froze. He stood too—uncomfortably out in the open, nowhere behind his desk. The silence buzzed like an alarm. She crossed her arms more to brace herself than to shield.



“Just fire me already,” she blurted, voice surprisingly steady. Shame prickled at her cheeks. She feared tears.



“That’s not why I called.”



Her face remained blank, but her eyes darted over him, searching for the truth. She felt as if she could break at any moment—broken trust, broken rules, broken hearts. She stepped forward, arms still guarding her. “Then why?” Her voice cracked. “What is this?”



He didn’t hesitate. “I need to see you,” he said.



Her chest tightened. See her—want her. The words echoed in her mind, colliding with every rule they’d broken before, every late-night drive, every stolen touch. She stepped forward, arms still guarding her. “Go on.” Her voice was a whisper charged with dread.



He moved slowly, deliberately. Walked past her to the window, reached up—and shut the blinds. The office dimmed, her breath hitched. He turned, vulnerability and need open in his gaze—like he was baring a wound.



She wanted to back away. But she remained rooted. When his hand settled at the nape of her neck—firm and certain—her own shock and longing kept her from pulling free. His lips crashed onto hers, fierce and unyielding, and all her defenses shattered.



She gasped, clutching his shirt, hating herself for craving this, hating him for knowing exactly how to undo her. He pressed her against the desk; papers fluttered to the carpet. He kissed down her throat—claiming, demanding. Her heart screamed yes and no at the same time, shame and want twisting her gut.



“Last chance,” he murmured against her skin—an edge of warning in his voice.



“Don’t stop,” she whispered back, breathless betrayal flooding her veins. She didn’t know if she was betraying him, herself, or both.



Buttons flew. Zippers slid. Her mind spun with desire and dread—how could they risk so much? Yet every logical thought dissolved under his touch. He aligned himself, then drove into her in one fierce, desperate thrust. She bit his shoulder, suppressing a moan that could bring both their careers crashing down. He groaned, his control shattering as she clenched around him, urging him deeper. The desk groaned beneath their weight. She didn’t care. Again and again, he drove into her, and each time their eyes locked: his saying You’re mine, I’ve missed you, Don’t stop. Hers echoing surrender and fear, longing and regret. She trembled, teetering on the edge—then broke, body convulsing around him. He followed her over that brink, buried his face in her neck with a low, shuddering groan, holding her like she was the only thing keeping him standing.



They collapsed into silence, panting against each other. Sheets of paper lay scattered around them like confessions. When he finally pulled back, his gaze softened. No professional smirk, no practiced calm—just the genuine, vulnerable smile he’d never shown anyone else. And in that moment, she realized she was irrevocably undone.













Yellow Polka Dot Bikini







The company's owner decided everyone needed to blow off steam and



invited them all to a BBQ and pool party.



She almost didn't go. Almost.



But the tension had been too much. The silence. The distance.



She wasn't over him. Not by a long shot.



But she couldn't take pretending anymore.



Standing in the mirror in her bikini, she bit her lip.



"Do I tempt him with this?"



She smiled to herself. She really shouldn't.



But God, if she couldn't have him, she at least wanted to know he still



wanted her.



If this didn't spark something?



She was done.



Not to be with him--she couldn't.



But to move on.



Even if it meant finding a new job.



When she arrived, he was already there--helping set up.



And of course he was wearing *those jeans*.



The ones that made her forget he was technically off-limits.



The ones that made him look like temptation in a button-up disguise.



She stepped into the pool slowly, deliberately.



She knew he was watching.



Shoulders back, hips swaying, her hair tied up in a messy knot that



somehow made her feel sexier than ever.



She didn't look at him directly.



Not yet. But she felt it.



His stare.



She found a group to talk to--guys from shipping mostly.



She laughed at their jokes. Tossed her head back.



And still... she felt his eyes on her.



Later, she caught him getting shoved into the pool by one of the newer



guys.



She tried not to laugh.



But seeing him come up soaked, blinking, shirt clinging to his chest?



She forgot how to breathe.



Then he peeled his soaked shirt off over his head.



And did... nothing.



Just stood there. Like it wasn't a big deal. Like it wasn't the most she'd



ever seen of him.



Hello? Was he kidding?



She wanted so badly to swim over to him, kiss the water droplets off his



chest.



And she just about did.



Until someone yelled something about volleyball.



She's not even sure what they said.



She wasn't listening. Clearly.



















Tied Game, Tongue Tied







Fate hurled them onto the same team like a cosmic joke. Of course it did. She kept her distance, desperately clinging to a thin veneer of indifference, but the connection between them was a live wire, crackling with tension. His gaze bore into her like a branding iron, making her skin tingle with an unbearable mix of tension and raw desire. She fought—oh, how she fought—to focus on the game. The score teetered on a knife's edge, every agonizing second a ticking time bomb.







And then, from the depths of the water, his powerful hands seized her legs with an authoritative grip, hoisting her onto his shoulders. She gasped, clutching his head to steady herself against the jolt of electric energy that coursed through her. She should have spoken, should have shoved him away, but instead, he pulled her into a searing, all-consuming kiss.







Her fingers dug into his shoulders with a fierce urgency, as though she were drowning and he was the only thing keeping her afloat.







Reality crashed back like a tidal wave. “We have to stop,” she whispered, the words fragile and utterly unconvincing.







He pulled away, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Um... you all did great!” he shouted, his voice slicing through the air like a whip.







Laughter erupted, hers mingling with the team’s, but inside? She was a raging inferno. And she knew he was engulfed in flames too.







Instead, she slammed the ball with unyielding precision. Hard. Clean. Perfect.























Bending the Rules











It began like any other morning—too quiet, too familiar. She clocked in early, coffee in hand, mind already racing through spreadsheets, emails, the endless list of things she should have finished yesterday. Her heart skipped when she saw the empty spot in the parking lot—his spot. Impossible. He was never late.



Then his voice cut through her thoughts: “Can I see you in my office?”



She nearly spilled her coffee. Her skin pricked with dread. This had to be about her job. She braced herself.



Inside his office, he shut the door and pulled the blinds. Her stomach flipped. He looked grave.



“I need to see you,” he said, low and steady.



She swallowed hard. “You said that already… Am I being fired?”



His eyes flickered—something close to relief?—and he stepped forward. “No. You don’t get it. I need to see you.” A pause, his voice almost cracking. “Like… on a date.”



Her heart stuttered. A date? The word felt both thrilling and forbidden. Every sensible part of her screamed to refuse. But another part—the one that had painted secret fantasies around his coffee-stained smile—whispered yes.



He rushed on: “I’ll text you an address. Tonight, after work. We’ll set boundaries—we’ll talk. Please.”



She nodded before her brain could catch up.



All afternoon she was a ghost, half convinced it was a dream. The rest of her was already planning her outfit. When the last clock-out beep echoed, her feet carried her home to shower, to do her hair, to slip into heels that made her feel dangerous.



At the dimly lit restaurant he waited, shirt rumpled, hair mussed—as uncertain as she felt. She sank into the chair, breathless.



“I’m… shocked,” she admitted, guilt and excitement tangled in her throat.



He stared at the menu as if it held all the answers, then looked up, serious. “Avoiding you—this—wasn’t working. So I’m throwing caution to the wind.”



She couldn’t help smiling. Him, of all people, confessing that. She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. He squeezed back, then let go and set down his glass.



“No kissing at work. No acting like you’re not my employee. I might even be harder on you. We tell no one. Deal?”



It was so blunt it almost hurt, but she understood. Rules gave them both something solid to hold onto. She nodded.



He looked surprised, then something like relief softened his face, and he laughed—a real laugh that loosened her tension.



For the next hour, they talked about anything but work. Each laugh, each glance, stoked a thrill she wasn’t sure she should feel. Yet every word pulled her closer.



Over dessert her foot brushed his. Accidental, at first. Then she did it again, higher. She felt his breath hitch when her toes slid between his legs. He was already hard, already unraveling—and somehow still holding back.



A rush of power and doubt flooded her. She should feel guilty—this was wrong. And yet every nerve in her body screamed to push further. To be the one who made him lose control.



She withdrew her foot, swallowing hard, heart pounding with fear and desire. Neither choice felt entirely right, but neither felt like denying this moment—this impossible, irresistible moment—could ever be.











The Animal



She was clueless about their destination. One moment he was escorting her to her car. The next, he seized her hand and muttered, "Come with me." She didn't question it. Didn't need to. His voice was a raw command—urgent, low, wrecked. He tugged her through a side door into a stairwell. Empty. Concrete. Silent.







He whisked her through a side door into a desolate stairwell—a world of concrete silence that seemed to echo with their shared desire. He turned, facing her with a fierce determination, his hands bracing the wall on either side of her head, caging her in—not rough, but undeniably certain.







Their eyes locked, igniting the air between them. The tension, the build-up, the aching want—it was all there, blazing in their gaze. He didn't even bother with a kiss, not at first. He just looked at her like she already belonged to him, and in that moment, she closed the gap, crashing her lips against his with a force that spoke volumes.







His body surrendered instantly, his hips grinding into hers, his hands claiming her waist as his mouth devoured hers. She grasped his shirt like it was the last solid thing in a world that was spinning out of control. When her hand skimmed down and felt him—hard, needy, and already on edge—she smiled against his mouth.







"You've taken care of me," she murmured, unzipping him with deliberate slowness. "Let me take care of you."







He groaned, pressing his forehead to hers as if the intensity was too much to bear. She stroked him with a confidence that left him breathless, their eyes locked in a dance of mutual need.







She kissed along his jaw, down his throat, across his chest, her lips a trail of fire against his skin. He cursed, the words raw and low, his body trembling under her touch. Her free hand anchored them both against the wall, keeping him steady as she watched him unravel inch by inch.







His grip on her hip was desperate, like he might collapse without her. He was too close, too far gone, and when he finally let go—loud, broken, his face buried in her neck—she held him through the storm, grounding him with the softness of her touch.







She pressed her lips to his shoulder, fingers threading through his hair, whispering comfort without words. Because this moment? It wasn't about her. It was about him. About the sheer, exhilarating rush of giving back.







She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Because the way he clung to her afterward, with a tenderness that belied the storm they'd just weathered? That said everything.

















Under the Syrup, Over the Edge







Under the thick sweetness of last night’s abandon, their bodies had collided in a fevered symphony—slow, deep, utterly devouring. She’d never dared imagine such raw intensity, such bone-shaking connection. But once the afterglow dissipated, the embers flared again—wild, urgent, unstoppable, as if each of them were starving for the other’s fire.



Now morning had bled into afternoon, and she woke to the intoxicating scent of butter sizzling in a pan—and him. Shirtless at the stove, every sinew of his back taut with promise. Memories assaulted her in vivid jolts: his calloused palms tracing the hollow of her waist, his lips searing over her collarbone, the hushed way he breathed her name as though it were a sacred secret.







She lingered in the doorway, clad only in his oversized button-down—its cotton pool at her mid-thigh, teasing all she wasn’t wearing.







He pivoted, catch of breath in his throat. His gaze locked onto her bare legs as if seeing her for the first time.







Desire flared in his eyes—the same ravenous hunger burning in hers.



“Morning,” he rasped, closing the gap to press a bruising kiss to her lips.







“Morning,” she answered, body already melting into his, her pulse hammering.







He teased, lips trailing down her neck. “Still want more?”







She moaned, arching. “I don’t think I can ever get enough.”



His grin was sinful, unapologetic—proof that trouble had her name written all over it.



With a swift flick, he killed the stove’s flame, planted a possessive kiss on her chest, then swept her up and perched her on the edge of the table. His gaze pinned her down—hungry, focused, predatory. He ripped the shirt from her shoulders. Nothing between them now. His breath hitched, eyes drinking her bare skin.



Before he could speak, she leaned back, lifting the hem just enough to reveal a tiny mistletoe tattoo high on her inner thigh. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I got it just for you,” she murmured.



A spark—heat, worship, need—flickered in his gaze before it was replaced by that devilish grin. “Naughty girl,” he growled. “I’m going to eat you for breakfast.”



He dropped to his knees, tongue plunging into her with fierce urgency. She clenched the table’s edge, stifling a scream as pleasure rocked her in relentless pulses. “I can’t control myself,” she moaned, thighs quivering.



“Neither can I,” he hissed, sealing a breast between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. She trembled, rattled by another shattering climax, muscles rippling from head to toe.



She didn’t pause for recovery. Desire still thrummed through her veins—raw, insistent. She needed to repay him tenfold. Fingers curled around him in his boxers, already swollen and slick. “I want you to feel as good as I do,” she vowed.



“I do, baby. I do,” he groaned, sliding against her hand in a slow thrust. She matched his pace—deliberate, in control—dragging out every delicious second until she sank to her knees, eyes locked on his.



His hands tangled in her hair, guiding her deeper. When he spilled over her tongue, it was a volcanic release—violent, perfect, exquisitely primal. He stared down at her, chest heaving, lips curved in a breathless, stunned smile.



“Wow,” he whispered, voice thick with disbelief and desire. “Can we do this every morning?”



She brushed a stray hair away, licked her lips, and returned his smile with a fiery glint in her eyes. “Only if you keep making breakfast.”













Sticky and Wet







They attempted to finish breakfast—attempted being the cruelest joke of all.



Sticky, golden syrup clung to her inner thighs and coated the ridges of his sculpted abs. The table groaned under the mess, but neither of them cared. Between ragged bites of cooling pancakes and feverish, stolen kisses, every inch of skin begged to be touched.



She dipped her fingers into the syrup and teasingly offered him a taste. He captured each slick digit with slow, deliberate slurps, eyes locked on hers as if drinking in her very soul.



“You’re a menace,” she murmured, trying—and failing—to sound cross.



He let a wicked grin spread across his face and traced her bottom lip with his thumb. “You started it, getting all naked and perching on my kitchen table.”



She slid off the edge, letting his shirt gape open over her shoulders. “We’re a sticky, shattered mess. Guess we should clean up.”



“In the shower?”



She arched a brow. “Unless you’d rather have… sticky sex.”



He said nothing—just swept her into his arms as if she were weightless, carrying her toward the bathroom.



Steam billowed the moment the scalding water hit. Her back pressed to the cool tile as his mouth descended on her. His hands followed the syrupy trails he’d left, every lick and flick of his tongue setting her nerves ablaze. He tasted her collarbone as if it were the sweetest dessert, teeth grazing just enough to make her tremble.



She laughed, ragged and breathless, threading her fingers through his hair. “This isn’t very efficient cleaning.”



He lifted a brow. “I’m thorough.”



He pinned her against the wall with his hips, crushing her closer, capturing her mouth in a fierce, devouring kiss. His hand dove between her thighs, fingers stroking her slick heat, and she gasped, forehead pressing to his, body arching.



Then he lifted her just enough, sliding inside her in one fluid, desperate thrust that stole her breath. Her legs clamped around his waist as he sank into her again and again. He was big—impossibly so—and each time he filled her, pleasure jolted through her. No wonder his jeans were always snug.



She didn’t want him to pull out. She wanted him buried deep, warm and full, every inch hers. His arms braced her against the tile, water cascading over them, steam weaving around their entwined bodies.



He started slow, savoring the shudder in her back, the soft sounds she made. Then he drove harder, faster—each thrust a pounding declaration of need. Her grip tightened on his shoulders, their eyes locking mid-motion, and her heart stuttered at the intensity of his gaze.



That look undid her completely. Not just the rhythm or the heat, but the way he seemed to worship her from the inside out.



She shattered first, a raw cry muffled against his neck as her muscles convulsed around him. He groaned, pressing deeper, prolonging his own release to watch her come apart. Then he found his edge—his sharp moan vibrating through her—as he spilled inside, hips jerking, his body tremoring with ecstasy.



She held him there, legs tightening, refusing to let him slip away. She wanted to freeze that moment forever—him, soaring inside her, both of them trembling under the torrent of hot water.



After a long beat, they reluctantly separated, breathing heavily. She giggled, brushing her lips against his damp cheek. “Now we’re clean.”



He flashed that grin again. “Give it five minutes. We’ll need another rinse.”



She rolled her eyes, stepping out and wrapping a towel around herself. “We’re definitely late.”



He stepped out after her, water dripping from his chest, and shrugged. “I’d call it a productive morning.”



She turned back with a smirk. “Afternoon.”



“Even better.”













Come Together







He found her at her desk one busy afternoon, hesitation wobbling his voice. She tensed—personal talk on the clock always spelled trouble.







“Hey,” he began, voice cracking. “I know we’re both off in two weeks… Would you be my date to a wedding?”



Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Of course,” she whispered, though her stomach twisted. “But… here?”



He exhaled, relief and shame battling on his face. “No, but I’ve been putting it off. I need to RSVP. Now.”



She forced a calm smile. “Yes. And don’t be nervous.”



--







The next weeks blurred into endless shifts and sleepless nights. They passed each other like ghosts in the hallway—until the night of the wedding arrived.



Alone in her apartment, she paced in front of the mirror:



she was a whirlwind of silk, mascara, and nerves. Her dress clung to every curve; her heart pounded a fierce rhythm. He’d been distant, swallowed by work, but she ached for him like a wound.







A sharp knock snapped her back. She rushed to the door. There he stood: exhaustion etched into his face, dark circles bruising his eyes. Yet the moment theirs locked, the air crackled.



“Hi,” they breathed in unison.



He handed her deep-red roses, his hand trembling. “You look—”



“Damn,” she cut in, tracing a rose petal, then his jaw. “Almost as stunning as you.” She leaned in, lips brushing his, igniting a searing heat.



As she fixed his tie, he groaned low—her pulse spiked. They barely survived the ceremony; the reception threatened to consume them.



She watched him laugh with friends, shoulders finally relaxed, eyes darting to her. Each glance was a spark she craved.



At last he approached. Fingertips brushed her arm. “Dance with me.”



She tilted her head, heart racing. “I didn’t know you danced.”



“I don’t,” he admitted, voice husky. “But tonight I need you close.”



Under the opening chords of “Come Together,” he pulled her into his arms. Her head found his chest; his heartbeat thudded fast, alive.



“I have to tell you something,” he murmured.



Her pulse soared. “Let’s go outside.”



They slipped into the moonlit garden. Fairy lights twinkled above; crickets sang softly. He led her along a winding path to the edge of the lawn.



He halted. Darkness wrapped around them. He swallowed, voice cracking: “I… suck at this.”



She stepped closer. “Then just say it.”



Words caught in his throat. A shooting star blazed overhead. She gasped. “Did you wish?”



He nodded, gaze fierce. “You.”



Her breath caught. Her heart thundered.



He closed the distance. “I love you.”



His confession struck her like lightning. She crashed her lips to his in a fierce, desperate kiss, pressing him against a wooden pillar. Hands roamed, mouths clung—this was more than passion; it was the truth finally unleashed.



When they broke apart, breathless, she cupped his face, tears shining. “I love you too.”



Under the stars, their hearts finally came together.



























Coming Soon











Stolen Glances – His POV







You’ve seen her version of the chaos.



Now it’s time to see how he fell...







From the moment she walked in, he told himself it was just a crush.







Harmless.







Manageable.







But the more he tried to ignore her, the harder it became to keep his distance--



especially when she made him laugh, challenged his rules, and smiled like she already knew.







What started with stolen glances and clumsy moments is about to unravel into



something much deeper.







And in his version of the story... he’s not just watching.







He’s burning.







He’s breaking rules.







And he’s falling.