Indecent...Nights. Jane O'Reilly

       Chapter Six

      The weird awkwardness is right there between us, only this time it’s tempered with an almost instant arousal. I want you, I think as I look at him. You’re weird and strange and you dress like a pervert and god, I want you. But I don’t say it out loud. ‘So have you?’

      ‘Not yet,’ he says, as he shrugs out of his jacket. ‘The opportunity has never presented itself.’

      ‘It hasn’t?’

      ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’ve wanked myself off in here a few times though.’

      Oh, god. I walk quickly towards the chair nearest to me and collapse into it, setting my bag down on the floor by my feet. Mutually assured destruction, I remind myself, as I glance around his office. It looks exactly the same as it always has, and yet something is different. ‘I want to have sex with you in your office,’ I say, rushing the words out. ‘I want to have lots of sex with you. I want to do all the things that everyone else is doing.’

      He gets out of his seat and walks around to my side of the desk. ‘You’ll have to be more specific,’ he says. ‘What sort of sex are you talking about?’

      ‘The indecent kind.’ I’m so hot now even my hair is sweating. ‘Please, just…I want to have sex with you.’ It takes everything I have to get those words out, and my heart races. I bite into my lip. What if he asks for those other words, like he did yesterday? I don’t know if I can say them.

      But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches out and grabs my right breast. He doesn’t stroke, or fondle. He grabs, his big hand covering that curve of flesh. My nipple pushes itself against his palm, like a hard little nut, straining to get into his fingers. He moves his hand away, but he does it slowly, his fingers pressing together to form a tight pinch that holds my nipple in that place between pleasure and pain for a second that’s not nearly long enough.

      ‘Show me your tits,’ he says then, his voice rough. ‘I didn’t see them yesterday. I want to see them.’

      I’m wearing a white cotton vest today, with a pale blue sweater over the top. It’s hardly easy access. And then there’s my bra. Not to mention my nerves, which are horrific. ‘I’m not Amber,’ I say, as I set shaking hands to the hem of my sweater.

      ‘Like I told you yesterday,’ he says, ‘Amber doesn’t make me hard.’ And then his hands are under my clothes. He touches my stomach, touches my breast through my bra and then works his hand underneath it until his hand is covering my soft, sensitive flesh.

      ‘Tell me what you want,’ he says, searching my face as he plays with my breast. He isn’t gentle, he’s rough, and I like it. I like it so much.

      ‘I can’t,’ I say, closing my eyes as he locks his thumb and forefinger around my nipple and tortures it. ‘Please, Tom. Don’t make me say it.’ I open my eyes and glance down at my bag.

      ‘In here?’ he says, unfastening the zip with his free hand. He touches the camera case, and I shake my head. His fingers settle on my iPad. Then he takes it out and turns it on.

      ‘Password?’

      ‘No.’

      He clicks into the folder, just as I did yesterday. ‘Purple,’ I say, digging my teeth into my lip. ‘Pick the purple.’

      But he doesn’t pick the purple. He picks the green. A shot fills the screen, and he looks at it for a moment, then he pulls my clothes out of the way and fills his mouth with my breast.

      I’m swamped by the sensation, as his mouth seems to pour heat into me. My breast swells against his mouth, and I arch my back and dig my fingers into his hair to hold him there. He bites, licks, sucks at me and I feel it everywhere. The faint scratch of his beard is rough against my skin when he moves his head so that he can take another look at the photo on the screen.

      I can’t blame him for that. This picture is beautiful, probably one of the best I have ever taken. The colour is soft, shades of pink and peach, contrasting sharply with the black pinstriped suit and dark cropped hair of the woman in the forefront. She is on her knees, her face hidden between the creamy thighs of her naked girlfriend. Her back is arched, her eyes closed, their fingers entwined as she rides out her orgasm.

      But there is more to this picture than the sex. There is love, and that makes it all the more erotic, somehow.

      Tom moves his hands to my waist and lifts me out of the chair. He actually lifts me. I’ve never been manhandled like this before, and god, I like it. My sweater is pushed up, exposing both my breasts now, and he somehow manages to get my skirt up around my waist when he sets me down on the desk.

      ‘Touch yourself,’ he says. ‘Show me how you touch yourself.’

      The request seems so lewd, so wicked. I grip the edge of the desk and shake my head, but I’m desperate to do as he asked. Then he opens his mouth over my breast again and works the already sensitive flesh. I can’t hold in the sound of pleasure, and he bites me when I let it out, forcing me to make it again, louder this time.

      He puts a hand between my knees, pushes them apart, and I let him. He’s going to touch me, I think. He was so good at it yesterday. Anticipation surges through me. I need this. I need it to be here, and I need it to be now. I hook my fingers into my knickers and drag them down to my knees, then kick them off, sending my shoes flying. They hit the door with a rapid thump, and then fall to the floor.

      The desktop is cold under my feet when I prop them on it. I’m fully exposed to him now. If he looks – and he does – he’ll see everything.

      ‘Ellie,’ he says roughly. ‘Fuck, Ellie. Do you know what you do to me?’

      I don’t say anything. I sit there on top of his desk, panting, waiting for him to give me relief from the ache centred right there between my legs. ‘Touch me,’ I beg him. ‘Please.’

      ‘Where?’ he asks. His voice is still harsh but those blue eyes are shining.

      The bastard. He is going to make me say it. And he has me so hot that I don’t have any choice. ‘My pussy,’ I say. ‘Touch my pussy.’

      He rests one hand on top of my thigh, moves his other hand between my legs, then slowly slides two fingers deep inside me. I clench tight around him, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough.

      Slowly, he begins to move those fingers back and forth inside me, and I think about his cock and how that would feel. Bigger, yes, harder, but I can’t imagine anything feeling better than this. His mouth on my breast was rough, desperate, but his fingers inside me are gentle, tender almost.

      I don’t understand. I glance at him, but he’s not looking at my face any more, he’s looking down at his hand, so I look down at it too. I grip the edge of the desk more tightly, curl my body forwards to get a better view, and he groans as I tighten around him.

      He’s wearing a white shirt, the kind with the proper cuffs, held together with plain silver cufflinks, and he’s pulled his sleeve up a little, exposing his wrist. His watch is masculine and chunky, and his fingers, when he pulls them out of me, are glossy. ‘You’re so wet,’ he says, his voice full of longing.

      I don’t think