Guilty Pleasure

Guilty Pleasure
Jane O'Reilly

After hours…Architect Tasha has to work harder and longer to be taken seriously by her sexist boss, and still she loses out to her smugly arrogant male colleagues. No wonder she feels like a pressure cooker ready to explode!But working late every night Tasha has found some very creative ways to relieve that pressure once her co-workers have left for the day. Far from taking orders - in her steamy fantasies Tasha is the one issuing instructions and Ethan Hall, the most arrogant of all her fellow architects, has to do her bidding!Then one night, Ethan catches Tasha in the act. Tasha’s sure Ethan will use the discovery to sink her career so she’s stunned, then thrilled!, when he promises to make her secret fantasies a red-hot reality…

After hours…

Architect Tasha has to work harder and longer to be taken seriously by her boss, and still she loses out to her smugly arrogant male colleagues. No wonder she feels like a pressure cooker ready to explode!

But working late every night Tasha has found some very creative ways to relieve that pressure once her co-workers have left for the day. Far from taking orders - in her steamy fantasies Tasha is the one issuing instructions and her fellow (smuggest!) architect Ethan Hall has to do her bidding!

Then one night, Ethan catches Tasha in the act. Tasha’s sure Ethan will use the discovery to sink her career so she’s stunned - then thrilled! - when he promises to make her secret fantasies a red-hot reality…

Guilty Pleasure

Jane O’Reilly

Copyright (#ulink_ec524586-2dbb-5fa8-b97e-9473ac8c7554)

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Jane O’Reilly 2015

Jane O’Reilly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474028295

Version date: 2018-07-23

Jane O’Reilly started writing as an antidote to kids’ TV when her youngest child was a baby. Her first novel was set in her old school and involved a ghost and lots of death. It’s unpublished, which is probably for the best. Then she wrote a romance, and that, as they say, was that. She lives near London with her husband and two children. Find her at www.janeoreilly.com, on Twitter as @janeoreilly and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/janeoreillyauthor (http://www.facebook.com/janeoreillyauthor)

Contents

Cover (#u5cdd71da-4e54-5f69-a9dd-1b4f5c41b910)

Blurb (#u94aacb96-c41c-54b0-91d2-eb318d1bd479)

Title Page (#uf37a5ae5-b269-537e-9ed4-4ea2358d3b84)

Copyright (#ulink_d9414914-71dc-5d2f-8adc-0a13416a69fd)

Author Bio (#ubada082e-02a0-55c4-9e55-f28ab744098c)

Chapter One (#ubc286ae3-a024-5d8b-ac40-20f910fd4b6c)

Chapter Two (#u155d1a6f-15ec-5be7-84e9-a1b72d9f6610)

Chapter Three (#u6f6140e0-e39e-5253-95da-88673d257215)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ulink_e2157553-1a01-5a0b-b51a-6c7a23075322)

A couple of weeks ago, I discovered the glory of masturbating at work. It happened completely by accident. I was working late, as usual. I’d had a crap day, as usual. I was stressed and bored and my brain wouldn’t co-operate. Everyone else had gone home. I was the only one there, sitting behind my desk in my office and playing around with plans for a house, and my clit just sort of…tingled.

I tried to ignore it, really I did, but the tingle wouldn’t go away. So I unfastened my trousers and put my hand in my knickers and worked myself into the best orgasm I’d ever had, and the next day I did it again. And the day after that, and the day after that until it was a regular part of my daily routine.

I think about it all day, about sliding my hand between my legs and playing with myself until I’m wet and hot and throbbing. About sitting back in my swivel chair and propping my feet on the edge of the desk and coming. I think about it as I’m drafting plans and drinking coffee and eating lunch at my desk. I think about it when I’m on the phone, when I’m charming clients, when Ethan Hall walks in every morning in his plain black suit, with his red gold hair pushed back into those thick waves that constantly seem about to misbehave. His office is directly opposite mine, and he never shuts his door properly. I watch him as he sits down at his desk, as he works endlessly, silently.

He’s like a bloody robot. Before he got here, I was the hardest working person, and I was comfortable with that. I was where I wanted to be. But he took things to another level. Suddenly I wasn’t the last person to leave any more, he was. I was taking twenty-minute lunches. He wasn’t taking a lunch break at all. So I dug in. I got to work earlier. I pulled in extra clients. I worked weekends. I worked through flu, and bank holidays. I out roboted the robot. It nearly broke me to do it. And until that day when I unfastened my trousers and got myself off, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could carry on for. Work had taken over so much of my life that there was barely any of it left for me.

But the things I do in my office when I’m alone are just for me. I wonder what Ethan would say if he knew what I get up to after everyone has left. He’s so uptight, so rigid. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him smile. His tie is always knotted just so, and his desk is always tidy. Even the way he speaks is controlled, every word measured, as if he only has a certain number allocated to him and doesn’t want to waste one. He’s been working here at Thomas Associates for six months and as far as I can tell, is completely overqualified for the job. He’s early thirties, like me, no sign of a wedding ring, no sign of anything but dedication to following the rules and never wearing any colour except black. Sometimes, I think about sliding my hand inside my trousers and pleasuring myself as he watches me through the half-open door. I think about making him watch. I think about making him suffer. He’d have to stand there and watch as I broke about a million rules, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

Obviously I don’t do it. But I think about it. And today, I’ve been thinking about it even more than usual. I had a meeting with Mr Donovan, the client from hell. He changes his mind at least once a fortnight, and today was no exception. I smiled and sucked it up, even as he leaned a little too close and asked me questions that were maybe a little too personal, and thought about referring him to one of the male architects. Maybe Cal Bailey, who is all smooth charm and easy patter. Or maybe to Ethan.

But as the sole female architect in a company of far too many men, I have to deal with clients like Michael Donovan. I have to show that I can. I have to pretend that I don’t think he’s a creep. I could complain. I could ask that he be given to one of the others, like Cal, or Ethan. And then Michael Donovan would say that I was difficult, that I didn’t listen. No-one would say the words hysterical female, but everyone would be thinking them. There is no room in my career for error, no room for PMT, no room for excuses.

I stare at the plans on the screen in front of me, try to make myself focus, but I can’t. My body feels tight, my skin too small, and the urge is growing. I sneak a glance around the office, even though I know I’m alone, and then I slide my hand over the front of my trousers. I let it sit there for a moment, feeling the weight of it. If I’m going to stop myself, this would be a good time.