Guilty Pleasure by Jane O'Reilly

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