Guilty Pleasure

Hell, who am I trying to kid? I couldn’t stop myself even if I wanted to. This is my guilty pleasure, and god knows I don’t have enough of those in my life. I move my hand up, over the front of my blouse, caress my breasts through the fabric, a gentle, naughty stroke. If someone walked in now, I could drop my hand, pretend I was adjusting my bra. It would all look completely innocent.

But no-one does. It’s just me and the office, me and the four walls. I can almost hear them whispering. Go on, they seem to be saying. Go on Tasha, you dirty bitch. Do it.

A moment of hesitation, then I’m unfastening my trousers, feeling my heart start to race. I swallow down my nerves, feeling the hot rush of excitement that I always experience when I surrender to the urge, when I decide yes, just once more. There is something so deliciously exciting about doing it here, somewhere I know I shouldn’t.

I glance up at the clock. The cleaners will be here soon. I’ll have to hurry. I position myself carefully on the edge of the chair, knees splayed wide. I shove my hand inside my underwear and find my clit. It throbs beneath my fingers, and I don’t waste any more time. I get straight to business, flicking my index finger over it in little circles. God, it feels good. I’ll be quick today, I can tell. I’m close already, my cunt wet, my breasts tingling, my skin hot. I’ve had an awful day, and I need this. I just need to get off, and then I’ll be able to concentrate.

But it’s not quite right. I get myself close, but not all the way there. I need to feel the chair beneath the bare skin of my arse. I need the air in this room to caress my throbbing pussy. I need Ethan Hall to walk in here tomorrow morning and stop as the male part of his brain switches on and says it smells like cunt in here. I can imagine him standing in the middle of the room, that thought bouncing round inside his head. He’d never let it show, but he’d be thinking it.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m on my feet, shoving my trousers down to my ankles, my knickers too. I sit back in the chair, the leather cold against my naked backside, my knees spread wide. Dirty, dirty bitch, Tasha, the walls seem to say.

Yes, I think to myself. Yes I am. I close my eyes as I find my clit again. It’s so swollen and engorged that my body jerks when I touch it, and I bite down on my lip to try and keep myself quiet. Must be quiet. Must be quick. Don’t want to get caught.

Then don’t masturbate at work, the sensible part of my brain says.

Where’s the fun in that? the wicked part replies.

I squirm in the chair, angling my hips forward, my back arching as I continue to play with my clit. I shove a hand inside my bra and pinch my nipples, but that only makes the frustration worse. Hurry up, Tasha. Someone might catch you.

Yes. Yes they might. I lower my other hand between my legs and shove two fingers inside my pussy and fuck myself with my hand as I flick my clit. I wonder what someone would think if they walked in now, if they saw me in this chair, riding my hand like some sort of nympho, the kind of woman who is so horny she has to get herself off at work. Would they be disgusted? If Cal caught me, he’d have me bent over the desk with my legs spread in a heartbeat. He’d fuck me fast and hard. He’d probably slap my arse and stick a finger in a very naughty place and we’d be two dirty fuckers together. Oh yes, that works for me. I feel my climax edging closer, as I think about getting down and dirty with Cal Bailey. I bet he masturbates in his office. He probably has a porn stash in his desk drawer.

But Ethan wouldn’t. If Ethan caught me, he’d stand in the doorway in his black suit and stare at me with a disapproving look on his face and say something like When you’ve quite finished, Tasha, I need you check the extension plans I’ve drawn up for the Mackenzies.

And then I’d smile, and I’d say something like Is watching me making your cock hard? I’m fucking myself harder now, deeper, and I’m so wet that I swear I’m going to leave a puddle of pussy juice all over my chair. ‘Yeah, I bet it is,’ I say out loud. ‘I bet your dick is as stiff as a metal bar inside your trousers, Ethan Hall, you uptight bastard.’ My entire body has become my clit, my blood humming, sweat dampening my back as I dig my heels into the floor and bite down on my lip and feel my climax charging towards me. Hurry up, Tasha. Hurry up.

Fuck, it’s going to be a big one. I can feel it. ‘Fuck,’ I say, as it gets closer, as it starts to drown me. I’m going to come and I’m going to come now and oh god. It crashes through me, an explosion of pleasure that has me crying out, even though I know I have to be quiet, but the wrongness of what I’m doing is so delicious and nothing, nothing feels like this. I shudder, swearing, as another spasm grips me.

My eyes are still closed as I slump back in my chair, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. Shit, the cleaners will be here any minute. What was I thinking?

I blink fast as I force my spent, floppy body to co-operate, as I bend forwards and get hold of my trousers and pull them up. I stagger to my feet and get my trousers as far as my knees when my skin starts to prickle.

I lift my head.

Ethan Hall is stood just outside the door.

Chapter Two (#ulink_d58ff4c5-2698-5ea3-8f81-30a55a2db327)

Fuck. Fucking fuck with bells on. I yank my trousers all the way up, race over to the door and kick it shut, which in hindsight is a really stupid move, because now I’m trapped inside my office.

I lean back against the door, my heart thumping its way up into my throat. What the hell is he doing here? Did he see? Of course he saw. How much did he see? Oh god, oh god. I’ve never been prone to panic attacks, but I think I might be about to have my first one. Fantasising about him catching me is one thing. Having it actually happen is something else entirely.

I let myself have a mini meltdown for a minute or so, and then I force myself to calm down. I force myself to think logically, to think it through. Denial is going to be key here. I straighten up, fasten my trousers, tuck my blouse back in place. My fingers are sticky, but I can’t do anything about that, so I ignore it. Why did it have to be Ethan? Why couldn’t it have been Cal?

I turn, press my ear against the door, but the pounding of my pulse is so loud that I can’t hear anything over it. Crap. I can’t stay in here all night, though I’m thinking about it. I press my hands to my face, my shame burning my palms. Why didn’t I resist? Why didn’t I go home and let my favourite vibrator Mr Big have his way with me?

Why did it have to be Ethan?

I run through a million ways out of this, most of which involve variations of me staying in my office until they find my desiccated corpse on the floor, and realise that I’ve got only one option.

I’m going to have to bullshit my way out of it.

I set my fingers to the door handle, take a deep breath, steeling myself to greet him with a quick hello and act as if nothing happened. After all, I don’t really know what he saw. Maybe the desk hid everything. Maybe he turned up the second after I’d done, and all he saw was me slumped in his chair with my eyes closed, and I can pretend I felt a bit faint, that’s all. Maybe he didn’t in fact see me frigging myself senseless behind the desk, with my legs spread wide and my fingers in my pussy and a look of ecstasy on my face.

Yes. And maybe my orgasm face is attractive and not completely demented.

I open the door.

He isn’t there. The place is empty, silent except for the whirr of the air conditioning. For a second, I think that I imagined it, then I catch the faintest trace of his aftershave in the air. It hits me like a cricket bat to the stomach.

Ethan Hall just caught me masturbating. Mr Uptight, Mr Don’t-use-ten-words-when-one-will-do just caught me getting myself off right there on the swivel chair in my office. The door at the far side of our floor opens and the cleaners clatter in. I dash back to my desk, grab my handbag, flick off my computer screen and lock my desk drawer. I have to get out of here. I can’t breathe.

I push past the cleaners, barely hearing their hellos, and make my way down the stairs. By the time I make it outside I am utterly convinced that I’ve just killed my career and ruined my entire life. I walk to the train station in a complete daze, and how I get on the right tube and get off at the right stop is beyond me.

I stagger into my house and collapse on the sofa in the dark. I sit there like that for long, too long, staring mindlessly into space, trying to figure out what the hell to do now.

By the next morning, I still haven’t figured it out. I spent most of the night lying awake in bed, trying not to think about it. At best, I’ll have to change my name and leave the country. At worst…well, the worst doesn’t even bear thinking about.

I pull on a suit, a blouse, fix my hair and makeup and catch the train to work. When I get inside, everything seems normal. No-one says anything. When I sneak a glance in the direction of Ethan’s office, the door is closed. I drink coffee and work and drink more coffee and buy a pair of shoes on my phone, and by half eleven, I’m beginning to think that maybe this is going to be okay. Maybe he didn’t see. Maybe he did see, but he’s going to act like he didn’t. Maybe if we never speak of it, it didn’t happen.

And then a little box pops up on the corner of my computer screen. You have new email! I automatically click through to my inbox. It’s probably Mr Donovan, changing his mind for the fiftieth time.

It’s not from Mr Donovan.

It’s from Ethan.

I don’t want to read it. I can’t read it. I’m not going to read it. I click delete and go back to the plans I was working on, only I can’t focus and basically I’m just drawing Lego houses. Twenty minutes later, my email pings again. I click delete again. Denial, denial.

Denial doesn’t really work when he rings my office phone and I answer it. ‘Tasha,’ he says. ‘Can I have a quick word?’

‘I’m a little busy,’ I say.

‘It’s important,’ he says. His tone is sharp, and through the open door of my office, I hear fingers stop tapping away at keyboards as the admin staff out on the main floor pause and listen in to our conversation.

Damn it. My cheeks flame. ‘Fine,’ I say. I slam down the phone far harder than I intend to, then put some steel in my spine, walk through into his office and carefully close the door. He’s sat behind his desk, a vast expanse of polished oak, in a dark swivel chair the same as mine. My stomach drops to my knees. I pick at my cuticle then remember that I don’t do that any more, and stop myself.

He clears his throat. ‘About yesterday,’ he says.

Dear god, this is awkward. I know that everyone outside is wondering what’s happening in here. Wondering what we’re doing. Thomas Associates isn’t a place where a lot happens. When we swapped from digestives to custard creams, everyone talked about it for a week. This little confrontation will be gossip fodder for a month. If not longer. ‘What about it?’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘We need to talk about what happened.’

‘Which was?’ I can’t stand this. I can’t listen to him talk in that cut-glass accent. I’m tired and anxious and being in here with him must be messing with my head, because I’m looking at him and I’m remembering the way he looked when I caught that glimpse of him through the half-open door last night.

‘Tasha,’ he says quietly. ‘We both know what you were doing.’ He sits there, watching me with those pale blue eyes, his arms folded, and I’m suddenly struck by how attractive he is. It’s not the loud, brash sexiness of Cal Bailey, but something quiet and dignified, with cheekbones that could cut glass, and that accent that definitely does.

I bet he’s really filthy. Why did I not see that before?

And now I’ve got that thought in my head, I can’t get rid of it.