**Chapter 6: Almost Caught**

The rain taps against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Liam’s corner office like a nervous finger drumming on glass. I’m perched on the edge of his massive mahogany desk, legs crossed, pretending to read a merger draft that hasn’t been turned in twenty minutes. The paper’s completely dry. My skin isn’t.

Liam stands behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him through the thin fabric of my blouse. He’s still in his suit, though the top two buttons are undone, tie loosened just enough to suggest he’s stopped pretending he cares about boardroom formality. His fingers brush the nape of my neck as he reaches for a pen on the desk. The contact is accidental. Or it’s supposed to be.

“Zoe,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by hours of negotiations and something else I’m no longer willing to ignore. “You’re staring at page four.”

I don’t look up. “It’s dense.”

“You haven’t turned the page in ten minutes.”

A slow breath escapes me. I finally glance over my shoulder. His dark eyes are locked on mine, heavy with that familiar, dangerous heat that’s been building since we signed the contract. The fake-dating agreement. The stepsibling cover. The business arrangement that’s supposed to keep us both in the clear with our families, our investors, the press. None of it matters right now. Not when his thumb is tracing the inside of my wrist, not when his breath hitches when I shift, not when the air between us feels thick enough to choke on.

“You’re distracted,” he says.

“So are you.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he leans down, bracing one hand on the desk beside my hip. The other slides around my waist, pulling me back against him just an inch. Enough. The friction is maddening. I can feel the hard line of his thighs against mine, the steady drum of his heart through his crisp dress shirt. My pulse answers in kind.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, but his mouth is already at my ear. “Not here. Not now. Julian’s due in twenty minutes.”

“Julian’s three floors down,” I whisper back, tilting my head to give him better access. My fingers find the back of his neck, tangling in the short hair at his nape. “He’s not coming up.”

“I know.” His lips graze my jaw. “That’s not the point.”

The point is the contract. The point is pretending we’re stepsiblings playing house for the sake of a portfolio. The point is that neither of us has pulled away in six weeks, even as the lines blur past the point of no return. But the point is also lying.

He kisses me.

It starts slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that’s supposed to remind us of boundaries. But boundaries are illusions when his tongue sweeps past my lips and I melt into him like I’ve been waiting for this exact collision. My hands slide up his chest, feeling the hard planes beneath silk and cotton, and when he groans against my mouth, something in me breaks open.

I turn in his arms, knees parting instinctively as he steps between them. The desk digs into my thighs, but I don’t care. His hands are everywhere now, gripping my waist, sliding up my ribs, tangling in my hair. The kiss deepens, hungry, desperate, like we’re both trying to consume the other before the world crashes back in. My fingers work at his belt, pushing past the buckle, and he catches my wrists, pressing them against his chest.

“Zoe,” he breathes, forehead resting against mine. Eyes dark. Pupils blown. “If we do this, we can’t pretend anymore.”

I should pull back. I should remind him of the terms, the family dinners, the investors, the carefully constructed fiction we’ve been selling for months. But his thumb strokes my bottom lip, and I’m already leaning in to kiss him again, already whispering against his mouth, “I don’t want to pretend.”

He curses, low and rough, and then he’s lifting me, settling me back on the desk like I weigh nothing. Papers scatter. The merger draft flutters to the floor. I don’t notice. I’m too busy arching into him as his hands slide down my skirt, pushing it up to my hips, fingers tracing the waistband of my lace panties. The cool air of the office hits my skin, but his touch is fire.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. He pushes the fabric aside, and his fingers are inside me before I can even gasp. I throw my head back, a sharp sound tearing from my throat. His strokes are slow at first, deliberate, testing, but when I whimper and push back against him, he finds his rhythm. Two fingers, curling just right, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur. My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into the expensive suit fabric.

“Look at me,” he orders.

I force my eyes open. He’s watching me like I’m the only thing in the room. Like I’m the only thing in the world. And maybe I am.

“Fuck, Zoe,” he mutters, voice strained. “You’re so tight. So wet for me.”

I arch, a broken sound escaping as he adds a third finger, stretching me, filling me. The pleasure coils low in my belly, tight and urgent. I’m close. I can feel it, but I don’t want him to stop. I want him to keep going, to keep pushing me to the edge while I watch him unravel.

He leans in, kissing me through the sensations, swallowing my moans. His thumb finds my clit, circling, rubbing, and I’m sobbing into his mouth, hips bucking wildly. The desk shakes beneath us. Somewhere in the building, a clock ticks. The city hums outside. None of it matters.

Then, footsteps.

Heavy. Confident. Moving down the hallway.

Liam freezes. His fingers still inside me. His breath hitches. My eyes fly open.

“Julian,” Liam whispers against my lips.

I hear it too. The distinct click of polished shoes on marble. The faint murmur of a voice on a phone. Julian Vance. Senior partner. The man who’s been asking pointed questions about our “family dynamics” at every gala since we started this charade. The man who’s due to arrive in exactly eighteen minutes.

Panic should hit me. It doesn’t.

Instead, something hotter, darker, surges through my veins. The risk. The thrill. The sheer, stupid impossibility of being caught. It coils around my spine and tightens, making every nerve ending scream.

Liam sees it in my face. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t run. He leans back in, pressing me harder against the desk, and his fingers start moving again. Slow. Deliberate. Almost cruel in their patience.

“Don’t,” I beg, but I mean don’t stop.

He kisses me, hard, swallowing my protest. His pace is controlled, measured, but I can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath hitches every time my walls flutter around him. He’s fighting himself. Fighting the urge to claim me fully, to push past the desk, past the rules, past the pretense. And I love him for it. Hate him for it. Need him for it.

Footsteps stop outside the door.

The handle jiggles.

My heart leaps into my throat. Liam goes rigid. His eyes lock onto mine. In them, I see the same realization: if Julian opens that door, we’re caught. Fully. Completely. There’s no explaining away his fingers inside me. There’s no covering it up with a contract and a smile.

The lock turns.

I press my hands flat against the desk, gripping the wood until my knuckles whiten. Liam doesn’t move. He keeps his hand inside me, keeps his body pressed against mine, keeps his mouth at my ear.

“Liam?” Julian’s voice, muffled through the door. “You in there? I’ve got the revised projections. We should go over them before the morning call.”

Liam doesn’t answer right away. I can feel the tension radiating off him, coiled tight, dangerous. Then, smoothly, he clears his throat. “In here. Give me a minute. I’m finishing up.”

His voice is steady. Controlled. The same voice he uses in boardrooms. The same voice that’s currently shuddering against my skin.

Julian hums in acknowledgment. “Alright. Door’s unlocked. I’ll be in the lounge.”

Footsteps fade.

The lock clicks back into place.

Liam doesn’t move. Not for a long moment. I can feel his heart hammering against my chest. My breath comes in ragged pulls. The air between us is electric, thick with adrenaline and something deeper, something that’s been simmering for months and finally boiled over.

He pulls his hand out slowly. I whine at the loss, but he silences me with a kiss, deep and claiming, as he steps back. His hands are already working at his belt, unhooking his trousers, pushing them down his thighs. He doesn’t look away from me. His cock is already hard, thick, leaking at the tip. It’s beautiful. It’s mine.

He drops to his knees.

Before I can speak, he’s taking me in his mouth.

The sound I make is pure ruin. My fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tight as he sinks down, taking me deep. His tongue works me with practiced precision, swirling, pressing, sucking, and I’m already trembling, already close. The desk digs into my back. The rain drums against the glass. Somewhere in the building, a printer whirs. Normal life continues.

But here, in this room, we’re breaking.

“Liam,” I gasp, hips rocking against his mouth. “Please. I’m close.”

He doesn’t stop. He just hums against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my core, and I shatter. My back arches off the desk, a cry tearing from my throat as waves of pleasure crash through me, relentless, devouring. I’m shaking, sobbing, completely undone. And he stays right there, taking every pulse, every twitch, until I’m boneless and breathless in his arms.

He stands slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are dark, hungry, but softer now. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair from my face. His thumb traces my bottom lip.

“Again,” I whisper.

He smiles. Small. Real. “Yeah.”

He pushes my skirt up higher, lifts me onto the desk, and spreads my legs. I wrap them around his waist, pulling him down between them. He lines up, the broad head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I’m still slick from his fingers, but it’s not enough. I need him. All of him.

He slides in slow. Inch by inch. My head falls back, a moan spilling from my lips as he fills me, stretches me, claims me. The desk creaks beneath us. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, holding me still as he settles fully inside. We’re flush now. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

He doesn’t move at first. Just breathes me in. “You feel like home,” he murmurs against my neck.

I turn my head, finding his mouth. “We should’ve started here.”

He smiles against my lips, then drives in.

The first thrust is deep, hard, and I cry out, nails raking down his back. He catches my wrists, pins them to the desk, and moves with a rhythm that’s all hunger and need. The desk groans. Papers slide to the floor. The rain outside intensifies, drumming harder against the glass like it’s trying to get in. But we don’t hear it. We’re too busy losing ourselves.

He hits that spot over and over, each thrust deeper, harder, more precise. My body knows what he’s doing. My mouth knows what to do. I match him, grinding down, taking him to the hilt, feeling him twitch inside me. He’s close. I can feel it in the tightness of his hips, the way his breath hitches, the way his grip on my wrists turns desperate.

“Look at me,” he demands.

I do. His eyes are glassy, raw, stripped of every corporate mask he’s ever worn. This is just Liam. The man who kisses me like he’s starving. The man who holds me like I’m fragile. The man who’s been falling for me in silence while we played our little game.

“Fuck, Zoe,” he groans. “I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” I whisper. “I’m right here.”

He thrusts once, twice, three times, and then he’s coming. Hard. Shuddering. A broken sound tears from his throat as he empties inside me, hot and deep, marking me from the inside out. I follow him over the edge, screaming his name as pleasure rips through me, relentless and total. We fall into each other, tangled and breathless, riding out the aftershocks like a storm finally breaking.

For a long time, there’s only the sound of our breathing. The rain. The distant hum of the city. I keep my legs wrapped around him, his weight braced against my hands, his face buried in my neck. He’s shaking. I am too.

Then, a knock.

Sharp. Three times.

My heart stops.

“Liam?” Julian’s voice, closer this time. “You okay in there? I heard a crash.”

Liam pulls out slowly. I whimper at the loss, but he doesn’t give me time to dwell. He’s already moving, buttoning his trousers, adjusting his tie, smoothing his hair. In thirty seconds, he’s the CEO again. The mask is back. But his eyes are different. Softer. Warmer. Real.

He steps back, giving me space. I quickly pull my skirt down, smooth my blouse, run a hand through my hair. I look up at him. He’s already at the desk, straightening papers, pretending to work. But his hand brushes mine as he reaches for a pen. A secret touch. A promise.

The door opens.

Julian steps in, tablet in hand, eyes scanning the room. They linger on me for half a second too long. I force a smile. He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

“Sorry for the delay,” Liam says smoothly. “Technical difficulties. But I’ve got the numbers ready. Let’s run through them.”

Julian nods, stepping further into the office. “We should probably keep the door open. Airflow’s been weird upstairs.”

Liam doesn’t hesitate. He walks around the desk, pushes the door fully open, and gestures toward the conference table. “Absolutely. Lead the way.”

I follow, heels clicking on the marble, heart still racing, skin still humming. As we sit, as Julian pulls up projections and starts talking about Q3 acquisitions, I catch Liam’s eye over the table. He doesn’t smile. But his knee brushes mine under the wood. Just once. A silent acknowledgment. A promise.

The contract is still on the desk. The cover story still exists. The family dinners, the press, the investors—they’re all still waiting.

But nothing is fake anymore.

Not the way his hand lingers on mine. Not the way his breath hitches when I shift my legs. Not the way his eyes follow me when I think he isn’t looking.

We played with fire. We got burned. And I’ve never been hotter.