Come Undone

A Bonus Chapter from No One Gets You Like This
Drew’s POV — The First Kiss & The Thirty-Eighth Floor

Part One: The Other Side of the Glass

Drew

I knew I was going to kiss him before he knew I was going to kiss him.

Not in the conference room — earlier. During the pitch. Standing at the front of Conference Room A with the Whitfield team watching and Nadia at the head of the table and Kieran Cole beside me in his charcoal suit, delivering the strategic framework with a voice so precise and commanding that my brain stopped processing the words and started processing the sound.

Low. Controlled. Authoritative. The voice of a man who’d built a forty-two-slide deck at two in the morning and refined it until every syllable was a weapon, and was now deploying those weapons with the calm efficiency of someone who’d been born to stand in front of rooms and make people believe things.

I was supposed to be watching Jacqueline Torres. I was supposed to be reading the client, tracking reactions, doing the creative director thing. Instead I was standing three feet to Kieran’s left, watching his mouth form words like audience segmentation and competitive positioning, and thinking about what that mouth would taste like.

This was a problem.

Not a new problem — I’d been managing the Kieran Cole mouth situation for six weeks, filing it under professional hazard alongside the forearms and the jaw and the way his eyes went pale and focused when he was arguing, like twin laser sights locking onto a target. But today the management was failing. Today the suit was doing something criminal to his shoulders and the rolled sleeves were out — in a pitch meeting, the man had rolled his sleeves during the Q&A section like he was settling in for manual labor — and every time he gestured at the screen, I caught a flash of lean forearm and corded tendon and the single vein that tracked from his wrist to his elbow, and my professional composure took another hit.

Then the handoff. His section to mine. He turned to me — a half-turn, practiced, seamless — and our eyes met, and the look on his face was not professional. It was a flicker. Half a second. The briefest crack in the composure, a flash of something hot and unguarded that he sealed back up so fast you’d miss it if you weren’t looking.

I was always looking.

The rest of the pitch was a blur. I delivered my sections — well, I think, based on Jacqueline’s expression and Nadia’s single approving nod — but the part of my brain responsible for content was operating on maybe sixty percent capacity. The other forty was occupied by a single, persistent, increasingly urgent thought:

Conference Room C. After this. Alone.

We won the account. Champagne. Celebration. The team euphoric, Nadia smiling, the whole floor vibrating with the particular energy of a major win. I stood in the middle of it with a cup I hadn’t sipped and watched Kieran across the room — flushed with the win, tie loosened, sleeves still rolled, his hair slightly disordered from running his hand through it during the Q&A — and made my decision.

“Conference Room C,” I said. Under the noise, for him only. “Five minutes.”

I left. Walked down the hallway with my heart trying to evacuate my body through my throat. Entered the room. Didn’t turn on the lights. Stood by the window and watched the city and tried to breathe and thought: This is either the best decision I’ve ever made or the worst, and I’m going to find out in approximately four minutes.

He came in at four minutes and twelve seconds. I know because I counted.

The door closed. The latch clicked. And Kieran Cole was standing in the doorway of Conference Room C, backlit by the dim hallway, his shape familiar and charged and devastating in the way that familiar things are devastating when you finally let yourself want them.

“We should talk about—” I started, because some part of me still thought we were going to talk.

I didn’t finish the sentence. Because Kieran was moving — crossing the room in steps I hadn’t seen him take, his body closing the distance with an inevitability that felt tidal, gravitational, the kind of force that you don’t resist because resisting it is like resisting the earth’s rotation.

He grabbed my tie.

His fist closing around the silk, the knot pressing against my throat, the sudden, sharp reality of Kieran Cole’s hand on my body for the first time. Not a handshake. Not an accidental brush. A grab. Deliberate. Possessive. The most aggressive thing anyone had ever done with neckwear, and I wanted it to never stop.

He pulled. I went. And his mouth found mine.

The first second was soft. Tentative. The barely-there press of a man who’d been performing control for thirty-one years and was now, for the first time, doing something uncontrolled. His lips were warm and dry and slightly parted and I could feel the tremor in them — the full-body vibration of a man whose self-discipline had just failed catastrophically and who was simultaneously terrified and exhilarated by the wreckage.

I kissed him back. And the soft evaporated.

My hands went to his hair. Both hands. Fingers sliding into the precisely styled architecture of Kieran Cole’s haircut and destroying it in a single motion — gripping, pulling, tilting his head back so I could deepen the kiss. He made a sound. God, the sound. A gasp that cracked open at the edges and turned guttural, a noise I cataloged immediately and filed under sounds I need to hear every day for the rest of my life.

I pushed him backward. Two steps, three — his shoulders hitting the glass wall of the conference room with a thud that should have brought us both to our senses and instead sent a bolt of heat through me so intense my vision blurred. He was pinned between the glass and my body, my thigh between his legs, my hands in his hair, my mouth on his, and he was kissing me back with a ferocity that dismantled every assumption I’d ever made about Kieran Cole’s emotional range.

He was not controlled. He was not precise. He was a man on fire, and his hands were gripping the back of my shirt hard enough to tear the fabric, and his tongue was in my mouth, and he was making sounds — small, broken, starving sounds — that he swallowed and that I caught and that I wanted more of, always more.

I got my thigh higher. Pressed up between his legs. And — fuck. The unmistakable, unambiguous, rock-hard evidence of Kieran Cole’s arousal pressed against my thigh through his suit pants, and the realization that Kieran Cole wanted me, physically, with his body, with a hardness I could feel — sent something primal tearing through my chest.

He rolled his hips. Against my thigh. An involuntary, desperate grind that pulled a groan from him — deep, guttural, the most uncontrolled sound I’d ever heard from the most controlled man I’d ever known — and my cock responded so violently I saw stars.

I kissed his jaw. His throat. The spot below his ear that I’d fantasized about for weeks. The reality was better. The taste of his skin. The salt. The heat. The pulse hammering against my lips, fast and visible and wild.

I bit. Gently. The tendon. And Kieran’s whole body jerked against mine, his hands flying to my hair, his hips pressing forward, a sound escaping him that was closer to a whimper than anything Kieran Cole would voluntarily produce.

I did it again. Harder. And the sound he made — a broken, desperate, raw thing — was the most beautiful noise I’d ever heard.

Then he pulled back. Panting. Flushed. His hair destroyed, his lips swollen, his eyes so dilated the gray was almost gone. He looked debauched and stunned and more human than I’d ever seen him.

“That was—” he started.

“Yeah,” I said.

He left. Fast. And I stood alone in Conference Room C, bracing myself against the table with both hands, breathing in ragged bursts, fully hard in my suit pants, my mouth still tingling with the taste of Kieran Cole’s surrender.

I touched my neck. Below my collar, on the left side — a spot that throbbed faintly. His mouth had been there. A mark. Small, faint, high enough that my collar almost covered it.

Almost.

I pressed my fingers to it. Felt the tenderness. The physical proof that his control had failed and his mouth had landed and he’d sucked on my throat hard enough to bruise.

I was keeping it. I was keeping this mark. I was going to look at it tonight in my bathroom mirror and remember the sound he made when I pushed him against the glass.

I walked back to the celebration with my tie straightened and my shirt smoothed and a mark on my neck that I wore like a medal.

Part Two: The Thirty-Eighth Floor

Two weeks later. A Tuesday. The thirty-eighth floor supply closet.

It started in the status meeting. The long table, the full team, the quarterly review for the Hargrove account. A routine meeting that I should have been fully present for and was approximately ten percent present for because Kieran’s leg was pressed against mine under the table.

Not accidentally. Deliberately. His thigh against mine, from hip to knee, a solid, continuous line of contact that was hidden by the tablecloth and visible only to my cardiovascular system, which was responding with the composure of a seismograph during an earthquake.

I put my hand on his thigh.

Under the table. My palm flat against the muscle through his slacks, my fingers curving around the inner thigh. A claim. A statement. Mine. This is mine. Right here, in this meeting, surrounded by these people, this leg is mine.

Kieran didn’t flinch. His face remained a model of professional attention, his eyes on the presenter. But under the table, his legs spread wider. A fraction of an inch. An invitation.

I moved my hand higher. Slow. Incremental. My fingers tracing the inseam of his slacks, each centimeter a dare. The fabric was thin — expensive, well-tailored — and I traced upward until my fingertips were brushing the crease where his thigh met his hip. I could feel his breathing change. A subtle deepening. The controlled respiration of a man maintaining composure while his colleague’s hand was dangerously close to his cock in a room full of coworkers.

The meeting ended. The team dispersed. Kieran walked to the door. Turned left. Not toward the elevator. Toward the supply closet.

I turned left behind him.

The closet was at the end of the hallway — metal shelves, boxes of printer paper, toner cartridges, a single fluorescent fixture. Kieran opened the door. I followed. The door closed.

He didn’t turn on the light.

In the dark, I heard his breathing. Fast. Shallow. The controlled mask dropped the moment the latch clicked, and the sound of Kieran Cole breathing hard in a dark supply closet was so erotic I nearly came in my pants.

His hands found me. My shirt. My chest. Pushing me backward until my shoulder blades hit the shelf. His mouth was on my throat instantly — the same spot, the mark spot, the territory he’d claimed on pitch day and kept returning to like a compass finding north.

“We have seven minutes,” he said against my skin. “Before someone notices.”

“Then stop talking.”

He dropped to his knees.

The sound of it — the shift of fabric, the muffled impact of his knees on the industrial carpet — was the most obscene thing I’d ever heard. Kieran Cole. On his knees. In a supply closet. In his suit. On the floor between boxes of printer paper, his hands on my belt, his fingers working the buckle with the same precision he brought to everything he decided mattered.

He unbuckled me. Unzipped. Pulled me free with a hand that was sure and warm and confident, and the contact — his bare hand on my cock, in this room, with the hallway light leaking under the door — made me hiss through my teeth.

He took me in his mouth.

My hand flew to my own mouth. Clamping down. Because the sound I was about to make would have carried through the door and down the hallway and directly into the open-plan office where forty-seven people were having a completely normal Tuesday afternoon.

Kieran on his knees was a revelation. Not hesitant. Not performative. Focused. The same single-minded thoroughness he brought to a strategy deck, applied to the act of sucking my cock with a seven-minute window. He took me deep — deeper than I expected, his throat opening, his hands gripping my hips — and the wet, tight, relentless pressure of his mouth made my knees buckle.

I looked down. In the dim light, I could just make out the shape of him — Kieran Cole in a two-thousand-dollar suit, kneeling on the floor of a supply closet, his eyes closed, his face focused, his mouth full and working with the kind of dedicated precision you’d normally associate with a man solving a complex equation.

He was beautiful. He was obscene. The contrast — the immaculate suit, the filthy act, the controlled man doing something utterly uncontrolled — was going to kill me.

I tried to warn him. My hand in his hair, the other clamped over my mouth. “Kieran — I’m going to — you should—”

He didn’t stop. He sucked harder. Took me deeper. His hands pulling my hips forward. He wanted it.

I came. Biting down on my own hand hard enough to leave marks, my knees giving out, grabbing the shelf for balance — scattering a box of paper clips that cascaded to the floor with a metallic rain that should have been embarrassing and was instead the soundtrack to the most intense orgasm of my life.

Kieran swallowed. Pulled off. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Stood up with the smooth motion of a man rising from a conference table and straightened his tie in the dark.

“Your turn,” I said. And spun him.

His chest hit the door. His palms flat against the metal, his breath a ragged curse as I pressed against him from behind. My hand went around his waist. Down. Into his open slacks — he’d already unbuckled, already prepared, the strategist who planned for every contingency — and my fingers wrapped around his cock and he was hard. Steel-hard, leaking, throbbing in my fist.

I stroked him. Fast, tight, efficient — minute five of seven and I wasn’t wasting a second. My mouth found his ear.

“You know what you looked like down there? On your knees? In your suit?” My hand working him, thumb dragging over the head, spreading the slick. “You looked like you were built for it. The most composed man in the building, on his knees, with his mouth full, and you loved it.”

His forehead pressed against the door. His hands curled into fists. “Drew—”

“Tonight. My apartment. I’m going to take my time with you. I’m going to lay you down and taste every inch of you and find every spot that makes you lose that composure. I’m going to make you so loud the neighbors complain.”

He came. Into my fist, against the door, with a bitten-off groan muffled by pressing his mouth against his own forearm. His body shuddered — a full, convulsive tremor.

We cleaned up. Paper towels from the shelf. Kieran straightened my collar. I straightened his hair. He buckled his belt. I buckled mine.

“I’ll go first,” he said. “You wait two minutes.”

He opened the door. Light flooded in. For a second, I saw him clearly — hair slightly mussed, lips slightly swollen, otherwise immaculate. The performance reassembled in seconds.

Except his eyes. His eyes, in that half-second before the door closed, were dark and warm and completely undone.

I waited. Counted one hundred and twenty seconds. Walked out.

I walked past the kitchen. Joss was there, making tea.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“Supply closet,” I said. “Needed toner.”

She looked at me. My shirt was untucked on one side. There was no toner in my hands.

“Toner,” she repeated.

“Toner.”

She stared at me for three more seconds. Then she turned back to her tea with an expression that said she was filing this under a heading that was getting very, very full.

I sat at my desk. Opened Slack. Sent Kieran a message: Toner situation resolved.

His reply came in eight seconds: Good. I was concerned about our printer supply chain.

I pressed my fist against my mouth to keep from laughing. Then I closed the laptop and let myself feel the full, absurd, incandescent reality of being in love with someone who made supply chain jokes after supply closet blowjobs.

No one gets me like this.

Not a soul.

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