Chapter 2: Against the Office Door
The hallway stretched narrow and dim, walls close enough to brush both their shoulders. Tim walked half a step ahead, keys jangling in his hand, and Lucy followed the broad line of his back like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.
Neither of them spoke. The silence was electric, charged with everything that had just happened and everything that was about to.
He stopped at a door near the end of the corridor. The wood was warped, the handle loose, and the sign screwed into it read "Chapter Office" in peeling gold letters. Tim fitted the key into the lock, twisted, and pushed the door open with his shoulder.
The office smelled like old leather and stale coffee. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds like it couldn't decide whether to commit to the job. The walls were lined with faded club patches in glass frames, yellowed membership rosters from decades past, photographs of men on motorcycles squinting into the sun.
A desk dominated the center of the room. Cluttered with half-empty whiskey glasses and a typewriter that looked like it hadn't been touched since the Reagan administration.
Lucy barely had time to take it all in before Tim's hand closed around her wrist and pulled her inside.
The door slammed shut behind her. His mouth was on hers before the echo faded, desperate and hungry, like something had finally broken loose inside him and he couldn't stop it now. Lucy's back hit the door, the wood hard against her shoulder blades, and she gasped into his mouth.
He swallowed the sound. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her hips, sliding up under her jacket to find the warm skin beneath. Calloused fingertips dragged across her stomach and she shivered, arching into him without meaning to.
"You have no idea," he said against her jaw, voice wrecked, "how long I've been telling myself not to do this."
Lucy's fingers found the collar of his cut, gripping the worn leather like a lifeline. "How long?"
"Since the first time I saw you walk into this garage." He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her chin, then the sensitive skin just below her ear. "You were seventeen. Had that ridiculous backpack with the pins on it. Your dad introduced you to everyone and you looked at me like I was just another one of his friends."
"I was trying not to stare."
"You failed."
She laughed, breathless, and then his teeth grazed her pulse point and the laugh turned into something else entirely. His hips pressed into hers, slow and deliberate, and Lucy felt every inch of him through the denim of her jeans. The pressure sent a shock of heat straight through her core.
Tim's hands dropped to her thighs. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, and her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, ankles locking at the small of his back. The new angle pressed him exactly where she needed him, and they both groaned at the contact.
The desk was only a few steps away. He carried her there, boots heavy on the worn carpet, and set her down on the edge. Papers scattered. A whiskey glass toppled and rolled, but neither of them cared. Tim's mouth never left her skin, trailing hot and open down her throat, across her collarbone, teeth scraping the edge of her shirt.
"I need these off," he muttered, fingers hooking into the waistband of her jeans.
Lucy lifted her hips to help him. The denim peeled away, taking her underwear with it, and she kicked her boots off one at a time. The air in the office was cool against her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her thighs.
Tim stepped back. Just for a second. Just long enough to look at her.
His chest was heaving. The flickering bulb cast strange shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the hunger in his eyes. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to jump.
"Tell me to stop," he said. "If you want me to stop, tell me now."
Lucy's answer was to reach for him. She hooked her fingers into the belt loops of his jeans and pulled him back between her legs. "Don't you dare."
Something shifted in his expression. The last thread of restraint, maybe. The final wall between what he wanted and what he'd allowed himself to have.
Tim dropped to his knees.
The carpet was rough against his jeans, worn thin from years of boots and cigarette ash. He didn't seem to notice. His hands slid up the outside of her thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, spreading her open for him.
Lucy's breath caught. Her fingers found the edge of the desk, gripping hard.
"You're sure?" he asked, one last time. His breath was warm against the inside of her thigh, and she could feel how close his mouth was. Close enough that if she shifted her hips even an inch, she'd feel his lips.
"I swear to God, Tim, if you don't—"
He didn't let her finish.
His mouth was on her, hot and sure, and Lucy's entire body arched off the desk. Her head fell back, a moan tearing out of her throat before she could stop it. His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, like he was cataloging every sound she made, every tremor that ran through her.
"Jesus," she gasped, fingers burying themselves in his hair. The gray at his temples was soft, and she gripped it hard enough to hurt, holding him exactly where she needed him. "Right there. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
Tim hummed against her, the vibration sending sparks up her spine, and she felt him smile. Even now, even here, he couldn't resist being smug. She'd have been annoyed if she wasn't so close to losing her mind.
His tongue found a rhythm, alternating pressure and release, and his thumb joined in, circling slow circles that made her thighs tremble. The flickering bulb above them buzzed in time with her heartbeat. The desk creaked. Somewhere in the distance, an engine revved.
Lucy couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but feel.
"Look at me," Tim murmured against her, and she forced her eyes open. He was staring up at her from between her legs, mouth wet, eyes dark and wild. "I want to see you when you come."
The words tipped her over the edge.
She shattered with a cry that she tried to muffle against her own shoulder, her body convulsing, fingers twisting in his hair. Tim held her through it, mouth gentle now, coaxing every last tremor out of her until she sagged against the desk, boneless and gasping.
He rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His knees cracked on the way up, and Lucy might have laughed if she had any air left in her lungs.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I think I forgot my own name."
"That's a good sign."
She pulled him down by the collar of his cut and kissed him. Tasted herself on his lips. It should have been strange, but it wasn't. Nothing about this felt strange. It felt inevitable.
"I want more," she said against his mouth. "I want all of it."
Tim's hands tightened on her waist. "Lucy."
"I'm serious. I didn't come here tonight to stop at second base."
"Second base." He laughed, low and rough. "You're twenty-two. You don't have to use baseball metaphors with me."
"Then skip the metaphors." She hooked her ankle around the back of his thigh, pulling him closer. "And get your clothes off."
He stared at her for a long moment. The flickering bulb caught the edge of his smile, the one that softened the hard lines of his face into something almost gentle.
"You're going to be the death of me," he said.
But his hands moved to his belt anyway, and the clink of the buckle was the sweetest sound Lucy had ever heard.
The door was locked. The garage was empty. The rest of the world could wait.