Absolutely — here's Chapter 4 of After Hours, where the tension reaches a boiling point and things get very spicy… right where it all started: the office.
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Chapter 4: Conference Room B
The partners' meeting ran long, but Elliot barely heard a word. Not with Julian seated across the room, legs crossed, fingers toying absently with his pen, gaze flicking to Elliot every few minutes—just long enough to burn.
After the meeting, Elliot made a show of walking toward the elevator. Julian, ever the actor, didn't follow right away.
But five minutes later, when Elliot stepped into Conference Room B, the door clicked shut behind him.
Julian was already there.
"Locked it," he said smoothly. "Just in case someone gets curious."
Elliot didn't even answer. His mouth was on Julian's before either of them could speak another word, the kiss rough and desperate. Hands scrambled to loosen buttons, yank at belts. Julian's tie was discarded so fast it hit the ground with a soft thud. Elliot shoved Julian back against the glass wall, the city skyline stretching behind him like a silent witness.
"Been thinking about this all week," Julian whispered, fingers dipping under Elliot's waistband.
"Oh yeah?" Elliot's voice was low, dangerous, his breath ghosting over Julian's throat. "You like the risk?"
Julian nodded, lips parting as Elliot pushed him back onto the conference table, scattering folders and legal briefs. "I like it when you lose control."
That was the last coherent sentence for a while.
Clothes were half-on, half-off. Julian's hands gripped the table's edge, knuckles pale, as Elliot's mouth moved over him with hungry precision. There was no hesitation now—just the obscene sound of skin against skin, muffled moans, the soft creak of leather chairs pushed aside in a hurry.
"Keep your voice down," Elliot growled into his ear.
"Make me," Julian hissed back, a wicked grin on his lips.
Elliot did.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was teeth in shoulders, fingernails on hips, control slipping in the shadows of the law firm's glass-walled sanctum. They were still half-dressed—shirt tails hanging, belt loops undone—when it happened. When Julian arched back, gripping Elliot's shoulders like he was afraid of floating away, and whispered his name like a secret.
It was fire.
It was filth dressed in a $3,000 suit.
And when it was over, Julian leaned back on his elbows, panting, flushed, completely wrecked.
"You're getting reckless," he said with a crooked smile.
Elliot straightened his tie with shaking hands. "You started it."
Julian's gaze lingered. "You keep letting me."
The silence between them pulsed.
The lock turned again.
And just like that—they slipped back into the world, the conference room door swinging open as if nothing had ever happened.