I set my bag down to the floor, ease off my shoes, then slowly start to undress. Jacket first. Ethan leans back against the sink, his hands grasping the edge of the marble, and watches me.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ I say.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything.’
He gestures to me. ‘Take off your skirt.’
‘Tell me about this house.’
He points to my skirt. I raise an eyebrow.
He sighs. ‘I bought this house for my ex-wife. She gave it to me when we divorced.’
I ease off my skirt as I digest this piece of information. So he’s divorced. That means he was married. Obviously I knew there were other women before me, and this isn’t serious, but I still feel a pang of something. ‘How long?’
‘Two years,’ he says. ‘Take off your blouse.’
I set my hands to the buttons, then pause, debating how much a blouse is worth. Not as much as what’s underneath it, but definitely something. ‘Why did you split up?’
‘Because I was a bastard. Take off your blouse.’
I slowly unfasten the buttons. ‘What sort of a bastard?’
‘I worked too hard and I partied too hard so she left me for one of my friends.’
Ouch. ‘It sounds as if you blame yourself.’
He shrugs. ‘Blouse.’
I unbutton it, ease it off my shoulders, let it fall to the floor, leaving me standing in front of him in nothing but my underwear. It’s not French silk lingerie, but it’s not grey cotton either. Nude bikini briefs, nude lace bra.
‘Knickers,’ he says. His voice comes out hoarse.
I slide my fingers into the sides, ease them down just enough to give him a glimpse of the dark hair that covers my mound. I try to think of more questions, but he’s already given me more information than I can process right now, just in those few sparse words, and I can feel him watching me, and I feel hot and confused and clean and dirty all at the same time. I drop my gaze to the floor. ‘A client made a pass at me today,’ I say. ‘I think I might have encouraged it.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I should have headed it off weeks ago. I didn’t.’ There’s silence. I can’t bring myself to look at him. ‘And maybe the way I was dressed today.’
‘I didn’t find it provocative,’ he says.
‘Liar.’
‘All right,’ Ethan replies. ‘I wanted to fuck you the moment I clapped eyes on you in that skirt, and I suspect most of the other men in the office did too, but that’s our problem.’ Then, ‘Take off your knickers.’
I obey, wordless, trembling.
‘Take off your bra.’
I fumble with the fastening, but I can’t get the fucking thing undone, my fingers won’t co-operate, and in the end I stand there tugging at it. I can feel tears pricking at the back of my throat, frustration, fear, self-hate twisting together inside me. I give up, cover my face with my hands. Today has just been too much for me. I feel like the walls are closing in, like I’m losing my grip on who I am, what I want.
Ethan moves towards me, puts gentle hands on my arms, then reaches around to my back and carefully unfastens my bra. He slides it down over my shoulders, folds it up, places it carefully next to his things by the sink, then he reaches into the shower and turns it on. He holds his hand under the water, waiting for it to heat. Then he motions for me to step inside, and I do. I stand there as the hot water thunders down over me like tropical rain, staring at the expensively glossy tiles and wishing I’d kept my bloody mouth shut. I didn’t need to know anything about him, other than the fact that he has an exquisite dick and likes to have sex in places he shouldn’t. I didn’t need to make this personal.
I didn’t need to tell him that I screwed things up big time with Mr Donovan. But I did it anyway. What the hell is wrong with me? The shower door opens, and I feel myself go tense. I wait for him to tell me to get out of the shower and leave, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps in with me.
His hands meet my shoulders, and he turns me round, and oh, god, he’s naked. We both stand there and look at each other as the water rains down on us, slicking our bodies and warming our skin, and I get my first proper look at what he’s been hiding under those black suits. More of that creamy skin with a hint of gold. His shoulders are broad, his body sinfully lean, with a faint dappling of freckles over his upper arms. He’s so elegantly put together that it almost hurts me to look at him.
Goes with the voice, I guess. This isn’t someone who grew up sharing a bedroom with two other kids, who didn’t always get breakfast. I shut down those thoughts. They don’t matter now. ‘Well, well,’ he says. ‘Just look at you.’
He reaches out, slides his hands over my skin. Despite everything we’ve done, we’ve never seen each other undressed before, and I have to admit, I like what I see. I like it a hell of a lot. When we fucked before, it was with urgency, with excitement, with the knowledge that we might get caught at any moment, and that was the point of it. No-one is going to catch us now, unless he’s got a girlfriend I don’t know about who might walk in at any moment. I glance over at the door.
‘Trying to escape?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Just wondering if your girlfriend is going to walk in and catch us.’
‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’
‘Oh,’ I say, not sure how I feel about how much that pleases me. ‘Why not?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because I haven’t had the time,’ he says. ‘Or the inclination.’
‘I’m finding that hard to believe.’ I reach out, get hold of his dick.
He moves closer. ‘It’s been difficult since my divorce,’ he says.
I’d like to ask him to expand on that, but I can’t, because he’s placed a hand over my right breast, and I seem to have forgotten how to talk. I seem to have forgotten how to do anything except move closer, pressing my body against his as he slowly caresses my sensitive flesh, playing his palm over my hot, hard nipple. ‘Lovely,’ he says. ‘So very lovely.’
How he can say that about a body built almost entirely from coffee, biscuits and anxiety is beyond me, but I decide not to argue with him. His hands slide over me, pulling me closer still, until his cock is pressed tight between us and we are a tangle of hands and mouths and desperation, the water cascading over us. I grab at him, hauling myself up, finding his mouth, tasting him rough and deep. I want more of what he’s already given me. I want to deny the sudden burst of emotion that is growing within me, the urge to lay myself bare in front of him and tell him everything.
The water turns soapy, and I realise with some surprise that he’s washing me. His hands are in my hair, on my skin, rubbing away the traces of the day, the traces of Mr Donovan and even the traces of what we did on the desk this morning. Then he sinks to his knees in front of me, pushes my thighs apart, and shoves his mouth between my legs. What he does next is quite frankly obscene, as he opens his mouth over my cunt and tastes me deep. He doesn’t use his hands this time, only his mouth, and it’s been so long since I felt this that I’d almost forgotten what it was like, and even when I remember, I’m sure it was never like this.
No-one ever licked me out with such skill, such determination. My knees start to shake, and I fling out my arms, trying to find something to hold on to, but all I can find is him. I sink my fingers into his hair as he sets my left foot on his shoulder and pushes me back against the hard chill of the glass.
And then he rears back, looks up at me. He slides a finger into his mouth, his gaze never leaving mine as he sucks it deep, then slides it over my tingling cunt. He lingers on my clit, lingers on the entrance to my body, and then the corner of his mouth quirks up in a wicked, knowing smile, and he finds a new place to explore.
‘Fuck,’ I say, as he eases his finger into a very naughty place.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Most definitely.’
And then he leans forward,
and his mouth gets back to work, and I close my eyes and let him do with me what he will. He brings me right to the edge of orgasm, so close that I can feel my body start to spasm, and he lingers there until I swear at him in frustration and shove a hand between my legs so I can finish the job myself.
He catches my wrist and stops me. ‘Tasha,’ he says. ‘Behave yourself.’
‘It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?’
He rises slowly to his feet, still holding my wrist. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He looks down at me, then he reaches out and turns off the water. Every move he makes is so careful, so considered, so controlled.
‘Do you ever do anything without thinking about it first?’ I ask him, as he leads me out of the shower and back into the bedroom. I stand there, cold and dripping and frustrated, as he pulls out a towel and rubs it over his head.
‘No.’
‘You’re never spontaneous?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t like to make mistakes,’ he says. And then he moves towards me and gently rubs me dry with that huge, soft towel. He strokes my arms, my legs, my belly, my breasts, my hair. It’s an odd sensation, almost caring, almost as if there’s something more going on here than risky desk sex and public-transport groping, as if we’re more than two colleagues with no life who’ve for some reason decided to spend a few days doing the nasty.
‘So, how much time did you spend thinking about this?’ I ask, as I pull the towel from his hand and push him back towards the bed. He lets me do it, and I like that. I get him onto the edge of the bed, and then I straddle him, just like I did in the office earlier, only this time there are no clothes between us. There’s no one on the other side of the door, waiting to catch us.
‘Enough,’ he says, and there’s a dangerous glimmer in his eyes that lets me know that he knows something I don’t. That this situation isn’t quite as safe and vanilla as it seems. My pulse kicks up as I move further up his body, pinning his upper arms to the bed with my knees.
‘And what did you think about?’
His gaze flicks to the window. ‘All sorts of things,’ he says.
‘Wicked things?’
‘Oh.’ He smiles. ‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me about them.’ He tries to touch me, but I lean forward, putting my weight on his arms, stopping him. ‘Talk first.’
He says nothing. I reach my hands to my breasts, caress them, tip my head back and sigh. ‘Bitch,’ he whispers.
‘I know.’ I pinch one of my nipples, watch his gaze lock on it as it goes tight and dark and hard. I pinch the other one.
‘I thought about fucking you up against the front door,’ he says. ‘But I decided it was too clichéd.’
‘I see.’ I slide a hand down over the curve of my belly.
‘Then I thought about screwing you on the living room floor,’ he says. ‘But that wasn’t quite right, either.’
‘No,’ I agree. ‘Too pedestrian.’
‘Quite,’ he says.
‘So what did you decide?’
He looks away, smiles again, but this time it’s tense, not quite so easy. ‘Up against the window,’ he says.
I look over at it. It’s a lovely wide thing, with a narrow ledge and a good view of the street beyond. There’s no doubt that the neighbours could see straight in, if they decided to look. I feel a kick of heat inside my body, the throb starting up again as arousal and desire curl up together in the pit of my stomach. I squirm a little, trying to relieve some of the ache. His mouth is so close. I let out a breath, take it back in again. All I have to do is move forward just a little, put my wet pussy on his mouth, and he would make me come, I know it.
But I don’t.
Instead, I push back, work my way down his long, lean body, exploring him with fingers and mouth and teeth. I work lower, lower, taste the arousal at the tip of his erection. I don’t linger there, even though I want to, because the window is calling to me. I get off the bed and walk slowly over to it, place my palms flat against the glass.
Anyone could look up and see me. I lean forward, set a knee to the narrow ledge and turn my face to the side, pressing my naked breasts against it. The cold makes me gasp. The warm stroke of Ethan’s hands makes me close my eyes and tip back my head. He’s tender with me, careful, as he gently pushes me down onto my knees. I rest my arms on the ledge and stare out of the window at the world beyond, as he lifts my hips and puts me exactly where he wants me. I can see the people walking along the street outside, the cars slowly driving past, and yet we’re safe from them in here.
And I realise that’s how he makes me feel. Safe. Even with all the things we’ve done, and the places we’ve done them, I was safe, because I was with him. I can feel the thick head of his cock pressing against the entrance to my body, and he eases his way forwards, filling me with one smooth stroke that has my back arching and my nails digging into my palms.
‘Tasha,’ he says. ‘You’re so very lovely. You know that, don’t you?’
His hands slide over my back, warm and strong, as he fucks into me again, and I lift my hand and thump the glass. Below on the street, a woman walking past turns her head, but she doesn’t look up at me.
‘So lovely,’ he says, ‘and so very, very naughty. Tell me, just how much time did you spend masturbating in your office?’
‘Not much,’ I lie.
‘And how much is not much?’ he asks. He’s fucking me harder now, a deep, steady rhythm that has my entire body humming. ‘Once a month? Once a week? Once a day?’
‘Not every day,’ I manage. Oh god, he’s fucking me hard now, and his fingers are sliding lightly over the cleft between my bum cheeks. I wiggle my hips, trying to increase the pressure of his touch.
His hand stills.
‘Most days,’ I admit.
‘Anywhere else in the building? Or just your office?’
I bite my lip as he increases the pressure. ‘Just my office.’
‘You are welcome to use my office,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’
I can’t respond to that, I can’t. I shake my head and arch my back, needing him deeper, wanting him more. ‘Shut up and fuck me.’
His hands meet my hips, holding me firm, as he angles his hips and does as I ask, fucking right into my g spot, making me moan. I bite my lip harder. I reach down between my legs and touch my clit, the pressure instantly sending me closer to climax.
Ethan takes my wrist, pulls it to the small of my back and holds it there. I jam my other hand onto the ledge as his thrusts get harder, more desperate, each one pitching me forwards towards the glass. Each one has me crying out, unable to stop myself, and I know that the entire street can hear me, and it only turns me on more.
‘Dirty bitch,’ he says.
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘Hold onto the window sill,’ he orders me, releasing his grip on my wrist. I obey, gripping it tightly, not sure what he’s planning. And knowing what I know about Ethan now, he does have a plan. He already knows how this is going to play out, even if I don’t. He moves away from me.
‘Stay there,’ he says, as I start to turn. ‘Don’t move.’
I hear the pull of a drawer and the snap of a condom, and then he’s back behind me. He puts a handful of something cold and slippery between my legs, and then higher, between my arse cheeks, and then I feel the hard press of his cock right there, where his fingers played so skilfully earlier, and I think yes, oh yes.
He eases his way inside me, carefully, slowly, as neither of us makes a sound and we both hold our breath, and I suddenly realise that we’re not playing games any more. This is something more, something very adult and dangerous, and I don’t quite know where we’re headed with it, but I can’t stop, I don’t want to stop. I push myself upright, taking his cock deep into my arse, and his hands come around me and find my breasts, and I slowly lift myself up, thigh muscles burning, then lower myself back down, loving the feel of him in
side me, of his hands on me. I lift my hands, lock them into his still damp hair, turn my head so that his face presses against mine. God, he’s hard inside me, thick and stiff, and it feels wonderful. I don’t even care if anyone is watching, not now.
One of his hands moves lower, over the curve of my belly and between my legs, and he finds my clit and strokes it as I fuck his cock. I’ve done this before, but it was never like this, and it was never something I owned, never something I asked for. It was never something I openly desired.
Ethan Hall has done something to me. He has changed something inside me, and I’m not sure it can ever be changed back. I have his rhythm and he has mine, and it doesn’t surprise me to find that they match each other perfectly. He starts to thrust harder, deeper, and I know that he’s losing control, and I wonder if he thought about this when he thought about us.
And then I’m coming. It hits me like a freight train, the force of it making me scream out his name as I am completely destroyed, reduced to a trembling, quivering wreck by the sheer force of it. I’m sweaty and shocked when we slide to the floor together, when his arms come around me and with one final, fierce thrust, his cock swells and he empties himself inside me.
Chapter Seven
We lie there, breathing hard, until we’re both cold and my stomach has started to rumble. And then we laugh. I don’t know which one of us starts first, but once we’ve started we can’t seem to stop, and god, it feels good. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. I can’t remember the last time I did anything other than work and stress. Time seems to expand around me, trapped in this precious place with him, with work so very far away.
Then we pick ourselves up, and get back into the shower. I’m tender and he’s careful with me, and I tease him about it. We order takeout, and he dares me to answer the door wearing nothing but a towel, and I do. We sleep in his big bed, and we wake up with our hands entwined. Neither of us says anything about it.
Guilty Pleasure Page 5