Page 171 of Stranger to Love

"You did it," I whispered, the anger I had tried to fake vanishing into a sea of overwhelming love. "The suits, the job, the van... you gave him everything."

Carrie’s breath hitched. "Did he get the job?"

"Yeah," I breathed, the word almost a sob of relief. "He got it."

Carrie bit her lip, a rare flash of uncertainty flickering in her eyes. "Are you mad at me, darling? I know how much your independence means to you, but I couldn't sit back and—"

I didn't let her finish.

I crashed my lips against hers, the impact almost painful, fuelled by a week of longing and a lifetime of gratitude. Carrie let out a sharp gasp of surprise as I used my weight to drive her backward, pinning her against the hallway cupboard door. The wood rattled under the force of us, but I didn’t care.

I was relentless. My hands were everywhere—tangling in her hair, gripping her waist, pulling her closer until there wasn’t a single atom of air between us. My mouth was demanding, devouring hers with a hunger that had been building since I last saw her. I wasn’t the brat or the student right then; I was a woman who was utterly, desperately consumed by the person in front of me.

Carrie’s hands found the back of my head, her fingers digging in as she gave as good as she got. She groaned into the kiss, a low sound that vibrated through my entire chest.

"Alex," she gasped against my lips, her voice wrecked. "The office... Richard..."

"Fuck Richard," I growled, nipping at her bottom lip before dragging my mouth down to the sensitive skin of her throat. "And fuck the office. You have no idea what you’ve done for me. For them."

I felt her hands slide down to my hips, her nails digging into the denim of my jeans as she hitched me up, desperate to feel my weight against her. Carrie guided us into the office with a sense of urgency, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room like a starting pistol. I didn't give her a second to breathe. My hands slid down her hips, hooking into the hem of her pencil skirt and bunching the fabric upward until I could find the smooth, toned heat of her thighs.

The air in the room was electric, thick with a week’s worth of repressed tension—until the sharp, digital chirp of her laptop cut through the silence.

We both jumped, the spell momentarily fractured. Carrie’s grip on me tightened for a second before she pulled back just enough to check her watch. She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a frustrated breath as the ringing continued. It was a scheduled board meeting for one of the firms she advised.

"I have to," she whispered, her eyes darting between my mouth and the glowing screen. "I’m so sorry, darling. I’ll make it quick. Twenty minutes."

I groaned, the frustration nearly physical, but I forced myself to be an adult. I let go of her, watching as she took three deep, stabilising breaths. It was fascinating and maddening to watch her work; she smoothed her skirt, adjusted her hair, and sat behind that mahogany desk, her professional mask snapping into place so perfectly it was like the last five minutes had never happened. She gave me one final, lingering look of pure guilt before hitting the 'Accept' button.

"Good afternoon, everyone," she said, her voice steady, cool, and utterly authoritative. "Let’s begin with the Q1 projections."

I rubbed my face, my fingers still tingling from the feel of her skin. I turned to unlock the door and leave, but my hand stopped on the handle. I didn't want to leave. I wanted her to know exactly what she was missing while she talked about profit margins and logistics.

I turned back around, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across my face. Carrie was looking at the screen, nodding as someone spoke, but her eyes flickered to me as I moved. I didn’t go to the door. Instead, I walked silently across the plush carpet and sank to the floor, disappearing beneath the edge of her desk.

I heard her catch her breath—a tiny, audible hitch that made the man on the other end of the call pause.

"Dr. Carter? Is everything alright with your connection?" the voice asked.

"Yes," Carrie said, her voice an octave higher than usual, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk so hard her knuckles turned white. "Fine. Please... continue."

I looked up at her from the shadows, my eyes full of heat and mischief, and reached for the hem of her skirt again.

Carrie tried to maintain her professional armour, but I could see the cracks forming. Under the desk, she gave me a sharp nudge with her foot—a silent, desperate plea for me to behave—but I just caught her ankles and held firm. I ran my hands slowly up the inside of her thighs, feeling the contrast of her soft skin against the cool silk of her underwear.

On the screen, a man was droning on about market volatility, but Carrie’s world was currently narrowing down to the dark space beneath her mahogany desk.

"I... I agree with that assessment, John," she said, her voice tight. She tried to push me away with one hand dipping out of the camera's view, her palm landing on my shoulder to shove me back. I didn't budge. Instead, I leaned in and playfully nipped at her fingertips.

Carrie’s back went rigid. A tiny, strangled sound hitched in her throat.

"Dr. Carter?" John asked, sounding concerned. "Are you quite alright? You look a bit... flushed."

"The heating in here is a bit... aggressive today," Carrie managed, her eyes fixed on the camera with a glazed, intense focus.

She knew I wasn’t stopping. I pushed her skirt up further, my thumbs tracing the line of her lace, and gently nudged her knees further apart. For a second, I thought she was going to end the call and kill me. But then, I felt the shift.

Carrie stopped fighting. Her hand, which had been trying to push me away, suddenly tangled in my hair, hidden from the camera but grounding her to me. She slowly, deliberately, slid further to the edge of her seat, opening herself up and giving me the undeniable green light.