Guilty Pleasure by Jane O'Reilly Page A

thighs apart, and shoves his mouth between my legs. What he does next is quite frankly obscene, as he opens his mouth over my cunt and tastes me deep. He doesn’t use his hands this time, only his mouth, and it’s been so long since I felt this that I’d almost forgotten what it was like, and even when I remember, I’m sure it was never like this.
    No-one ever licked me out with such skill, such determination. My knees start to shake, and I fling out my arms, trying to find something to hold on to, but all I can find is him. I sink my fingers into his hair as he sets my left foot on his shoulder and pushes me back against the hard chill of the glass.
    And then he rears back, looks up at me. He slides a finger into his mouth, his gaze never leaving mine as he sucks it deep, then slides it over my tingling cunt. He lingers on my clit, lingers on the entrance to my body, and then the corner of his mouth quirks up in a wicked, knowing smile, and he finds a new place to explore.
    ‘Fuck,’ I say, as he eases his finger into a very naughty place.
    ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Most definitely.’
    And then he leans forward, and his mouth gets back to work, and I close my eyes and let him do with me what he will. He brings me right to the edge of orgasm, so close that I can feel my body start to spasm, and he lingers there until I swear at him in frustration and shove a hand between my legs so I can finish the job myself.
    He catches my wrist and stops me. ‘Tasha,’ he says. ‘Behave yourself.’
    ‘It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?’
    He rises slowly to his feet, still holding my wrist. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He looks down at me, then he reaches out and turns off the water. Every move he makes is so careful, so considered, so controlled.
    ‘Do you ever do anything without thinking about it first?’ I ask him, as he leads me out of the shower and back into the bedroom. I stand there, cold and dripping and frustrated, as he pulls out a towel and rubs it over his head.
    ‘No.’
    ‘You’re never spontaneous?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘I don’t like to make mistakes,’ he says. And then he moves towards me and gently rubs me dry with that huge, soft towel. He strokes my arms, my legs, my belly, my breasts, my hair. It’s an odd sensation, almost caring, almost as if there’s something more going on here than risky desk sex and public-transport groping, as if we’re more than two colleagues with no life who’ve for some reason decided to spend a few days doing the nasty.
    ‘So, how much time did you spend thinking about this?’ I ask, as I pull the towel from his hand and push him back towards the bed. He lets me do it, and I like that. I get him onto the edge of the bed, and then I straddle him, just like I did in the office earlier, only this time there are no clothes between us. There’s no one on the other side of the door, waiting to catch us.
    ‘Enough,’ he says, and there’s a dangerous glimmer in his eyes that lets me know that he knows something I don’t. That this situation isn’t quite as safe and vanilla as it seems. My pulse kicks up as I move further up his body, pinning his upper arms to the bed with my knees.
    ‘And what did you think about?’
    His gaze flicks to the window. ‘All sorts of things,’ he says.
    ‘Wicked things?’
    ‘Oh.’ He smiles. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me about them.’ He tries to touch me, but I lean forward, putting my weight on his arms, stopping him. ‘Talk first.’
    He says nothing. I reach my hands to my breasts, caress them, tip my head back and sigh. ‘Bitch,’ he whispers.
    ‘I know.’ I pinch one of my nipples, watch his gaze lock on it as it goes tight and dark and hard. I pinch the other one.
    ‘I thought about fucking you up against the front door,’ he says. ‘But I decided it was too clichéd.’
    ‘I see.’ I slide a hand down over the curve of my belly.
    ‘Then I thought about screwing you on the