Guilty Pleasure. Jane O'Reilly
drink, his cuff skates across my arm, but I hold it together. I have to act normal, act like this is okay, act like I’m not aching with lust simply from breathing the same air as him.
We find a table at the far end of the pub, next to the quiz machines, and sit down. The two of them talk about a client they saw today, about the football, about some party that Cal is throwing at his house at the weekend, and then he gets up and goes over to play on the quiz machine, leaving me with Ethan.
I don’t know what to say. We’re not friends. We work together. We sit in awkward silence for a long moment, as I try not to watch his hands and not to think about them on me, but the heat inside me is growing. And the reason that the heat inside me is growing is because Ethan’s thigh is touching mine. There isn’t much room at the table, so we are sat close together on the hard bench seat, and a moment ago he moved slightly, and bingo, bodily contact. He’s sipping his pint, saying nothing, not even looking at me. But I have to put a stop to this. I have to make him understand.
‘About what happened earlier,’ I say.
‘Yes.’
‘It shouldn’t have happened.
‘No.’
‘But it did happen,’ I continue, ‘and I think we need to decide what we’re going to do about it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you ever talk in words of more than one syllable?’
‘Occasionally.’
God, he’s infuriating. Now I’m cross as well as horny, and I don’t like it. I pick up my glass, and I’m about to take a drink, just to stop myself from talking before I say something I’ll regret, when he leans in a little closer.
‘What do you want to do about it, Tasha?’
I want to do it again. I want to do it again, and I want to do more. I want to do all sorts of filthy things with him. ‘We work together,’ I say sharply, all too aware that only a few minutes ago, I lost control of myself and kissed him.
‘I see.’
‘I’m not sure that you do.’
‘Then please, enlighten me.’
‘I liked what we did today.’ I have to stop for a moment, struggle to catch my breath. ‘But you have to see that we can’t do it again. What if we…’
‘What if we what?’
‘What if we got caught?’
He turns his head then, and I see a gleam of something in those water-blue eyes, something dangerous, something I know I should walk away from. ‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘What if we did?’
‘We…’ I say, and then I stop. I stop because his hand is sliding over my thigh, and because I like it. I stop because he’s found my hand, and he’s pulling it towards him, pressing it down on his own leg. He covers my hand with his, hard and firm, and then he lets go.
I don’t move my hand away.
This is wrong. I know this is wrong. We work together, and I don’t have time to get tangled up with this right now, and the last thing I need is some sordid office affair. They always end badly for the women involved, everyone knows that.
But his thigh is so solid and warm beneath my hand, and his hand is wandering, drawing soft circles on my leg, moving higher, closer, making me throb and ache and squirm, and Cal is only a few feet away, and I’m thinking about what would happen if he glanced across, and saw Ethan groping me under the table.
I could lose everything.
I swallow hard as I think about that, as I think about losing everything I have worked so hard for, my career hanging in tatters, my reputation destroyed, because it’s always the woman who loses everything in these situations, who gets branded a tart and a slut, who is forced to crawl away in shame.
And I’m thinking about how horny and wicked and exciting it was, sucking his cock in his office earlier. How everything I did alone in my office pales in comparison. About how, for the first time in as long as I can remember, work is not the main thing on my mind.
Ethan’s hand is at the top of my thigh now. ‘What are you thinking?’ he whispers.
‘I’m thinking that I underestimated you,’ I say.
‘In what way?’
‘You don’t look like a pervert.’
‘Appearances can be deceiving,’ he says. ‘Because neither do you.’
‘I wish that I was wearing a skirt,’ I reply.
‘Why?’
I lift my drink, sip a little. ‘Because I really need your fingers inside me right now.’
Ethan lifts his pint, takes a long, slow pull. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see his throat work, as I watch Cal playing on the quiz machine. A couple of girls have moved closer, and it doesn’t surprise me to see him quickly engage them in conversation. ‘I see.’
He moves his hand away, and my heart leaps up into my throat. ‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ I say quickly, panic rising inside me.
‘On the contrary,’ he says. ‘It’s exactly what you should have said.’ He sets down his pint and gets to his feet. He smoothes his tie and looks down at me. Everything he does is so careful, so considered. I’m constantly wondering what he’s going to do next, what he’s going to say. ‘I’m going back to the office for a bit,’ he says. ‘I have some work I need to finish.’ He moves away from the table, talks to Cal for a moment. Cal looks at Ethan, then looks over at me.
Then Ethan walks out of the pub. I don’t let myself watch him go. I play with my drink and I play with a beer mat and I ache and ache and ache. And then I get to my feet and walk over to Cal. ‘I’ve got to get going,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ One of the girls scowls at me.
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