The Other Half by Sarah Rayner

he ran his hand up her back, then inside her top. Fuck! When was she going to outgrow this sort of behavior? He smelled gorgeous— irresistible— and she kissed him again. Desire overwhelmed her. “We could leave,” she said moments later.
    “We could.” James took a large gulp of his margarita. “C’mon.” He pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go.”
    Chloë drained her drink and, as they left, slung the glass on the bar. Her apartment was on his way home, and things got even more heated in the taxi. Inevitably, he invited himself in “for coffee”—the very thing she wanted too. Fumbling, she dropped her keys in the porch, and as she bent to pick them up, level with his crotch, she thought she could see his hard-on.
    Inside the apartment, he pushed her up against the wall in the hall and kissed her again, more intensely still, urgently.
    “Shh! We’ll wake Rob,” she whispered, taking his hand and leading him into her bedroom.
    Immediately they fell onto the bed and within seconds he’d removed her top, her skirt, her shoes. She undid his belt, his trousers—yes, he did have a hard-on—and they kissed all the while. They shouldn’t be doing this—but hell! She’d left resistance somewhere in Soho.
    He slid his hand into her knickers—wow—he certainly knew where everything was—and then, because what he was doing was so good, so delicious, she let him peel off her underwear and kiss her there too. He seemed content to do it for ages—bliss—knowing when to be gentle, when not to be … and not to stop too soon, but to carry on … and on … She was going to come any minute—any second—now, NOW! (Oops! The noise—Rob!) Then she wanted it all, inside, and there was no point in stopping and, anyway, she didn’t want to.
    At four in the morning she woke, after about an hour’s sleep, parched. James was asleep beside her, his arm flung over her shoulder. Gently she lifted it off and slid out of bed, hoping she hadn’t disturbed him. When she returned, he was awake and half sitting up. The room stank of sex. Lord, she could scarcely walk!
    “You are one of the horniest, sexiest, most gorgeous women I have ever met,” he said, grabbing her and pulling her back into bed.
    “Thank you.” At that moment Chloë felt all of those things, head to toe. “You’re okay, too.” And to show she meant it, she slid slowly under the covers and licked down his chest—that oh-so-male broadness—down his belly. Down. Down.
    Later, much later, she called another taxi so he could go home and change. And, later still, she bade him farewell on the doorstep, hastily slung-on silk petticoat exposed to the early morning light of Battersea Rise.

 
    8
    It hurt. Really hurt. With every pulse, the back of her head throbbed. She could feel the blood pumping around. White wine, red wine, tequila. Ouch. It was seven forty-five in the morning. Friday … Fuck.
    Even Radio Four seemed loud.
    Ibuprofen.
    If Chloë took painkillers on top of that lot, it would be a drug too far. She had one rule about drugs: wait for the last ones to wear off before taking more. Except tea. That didn’t count.
    She tiptoed into the kitchen. Such a mess! She was glad James hadn’t seen it. As she stood waiting for the kettle to boil, she cast her mind back to the night before. What had she done? What hadn’t she done? She’d had sex. Sex with a married man. Not just had sex with a married man, but one who, while he wasn’t her boss, could play a vital role in getting her ambitions off the ground.
    Lots of people have to approve my magazine concept aside from him, she tried to reason. And I didn’t sleep with him because of that.
    Yet she could hear a voice—partly her mother’s, partly her own: “ Now you’re one of those women .” What women? “ One of those women who sleeps with men to get what she wants. ”
    Chloë poured the water into the mug. God, she felt awful. She opened the fridge, sniffed the milk—still