Guilty Pleasure (11 page)

‘Dirty bitch,’ he says, as he rises slowly to his feet, the movement of his hand never slowing, keeping that same steady pace. I’ve watched him do this enough times now to know that he’s not even close to making himself come. He’s drawing this out, taking his time. ‘Hurry, Ethan,’ I tell him.

‘What for?’

‘Because I’ve organised a company meeting for five,’ I tell him. ‘The others will be here in, oh,’ I check my watch, ‘eight minutes. And we wouldn’t want them to catch us, would we?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Ethan says, despite the fact that Cal Bailey has watched us fuck on several occasions. At the last party he threw, I gave Ethan a blowjob in the middle of the kitchen with half a dozen people watching. When he came on my face, they gave him a round of applause. For the first time, I’m living life on my own terms, professionally and personally. I’ve stopped trying to compete with the men of the world.

I’ve finally learned that I don’t need to.

All I need is this. Ethan Hall, with his trousers unfastened and his cock out, stroking the thick length of his erection, doing it so rudely, so blatantly, like the dirty exhibitionist that he is. ‘Hurry,’ I taunt him. I unfasten a couple of buttons on my blouse, baring the curve of my breast, pushed up by a black satin bra. I run my finger over the curve, watch Ethan’s eyes widen. Sometimes I put on a show for him, like I did when he caught me in the office of Thomas Associates, sat in that desk chair with my skirt around my waist and my hand in my underwear. Not today, though. Today is all about Ethan.

I’m so wet and hot I’m finding it incredibly hard not to touch myself, but I don’t rush into anything, not any more. Ethan has taught me the value of thinking, of waiting, of feeling the excitement that comes with anticipation. He told me that after he caught me that first time, he spent the rest of the evening playing with his dick, not enough to make himself come, but enough to keep himself hard as he thought about how he was going to deal with it. By the time he called me into his office the next morning, he was so desperate to come that he was planning on taking the rest of the afternoon off for an extended session of self-abuse.

Fortunately for both of us, it didn’t quite work out that way.

I pull the edges of my blouse together, slowly fasten the buttons, teasing, teasing, as he continues to stroke himself at that same controlled pace. ‘Hurry up,’ I tell him, though I don’t put much force into the words. God, I like watching him do this. The flex of his wrist, the way he grips his cock, the way his stomach muscles tense. I could lose all sense of time, standing here watching him pleasure himself. But the others will be here in a few short minutes, and although the possibility of being caught is sexy as hell, I’m not sure Verity really wants to walk in on this, and I don’t want to scare the poor woman away before she’s even got started.

‘You want me to hurry?’ he asks, increasing his pace slightly, gripping his cock even harder. A thin trickle of clear liquid drips from the end, making a little glossy circle on top of the table.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Hurry up, Ethan. Unless, of course, you want to get caught.’ Our gazes meet, and I know he’s thinking back to that time when he caught me.

‘No,’ he says, his voice a little hoarser. ‘Not today.’

‘What would you do if someone did walk in?’ I ask him. ‘If someone came in here, right now, and caught you, what would you do?’

‘I’d probably come all over the desk,’ he admits. He closes his eyes, as if he’s imagining it.

‘I’d like to see that,’ I tell him. ‘I’d like to see you come all over the desk.’ I settle myself back into my seat, cross my legs, hot, excited, turned on.

And then Ethan says something I don’t expect. From the way he’s looking at me, I don’t think he expected it either. ‘Marry me, Tasha.’

‘What?’

‘Marry me,’ he says, and his hand starts to work faster, and he’s flushed and smiling, and I realise that he means it.

‘But….’

‘I’m not going to come until you give me an answer.’

‘We haven’t even talked about it,’ I point out, as the idea begins to take hold inside me, as I look up at this wonderful, beautiful man, someone who views me as a woman and yet doesn’t think I’m any the less for it. Who likes me wholly as I am, who loves me. ‘Don’t you want to talk about it?’

‘No,’ he says. He’s pumping faster now, faster, and I can see how much he needs to come, how much effort it’s taking for him to hold back. I want to see him orgasm almost as much as I want to put him out of his misery, but he’s asking so much. ‘Ethan, what are you doing?’

‘Something I’ve been too afraid to do for a very long time,’ he says, his voice harsh. ‘Call it an experiment, if you will. Please, Tasha. Just answer the question. Don’t make me think about it. Don’t make me think about all the ways I’m not right for you otherwise I might bloody well lose my nerve.’

He’s on the edge now, I can see it, as I lean forward in my chair, as I try to persuade myself I don’t know what the answer is, only I do, and I’m just torturing him now. I let him suffer for a few more seconds, a few more, for my pleasure and for his.

And then I give him my answer. ‘Yes,’ I say. One little word, so short, so easy. One little word that can change everything. Those water-blue eyes go wide, and he tries to smile at me, only his climax is on him now, gripping him hard as he squeezes his stiff cock in a steely fist and spatters the top of the desk with come, white in contrast to polished black. We stay where we are, breathing too fast, not speaking, barely able to comprehend what we’ve just done.

And then I hear the sound of the front door opening, and voices, one confident and male, the other soft, unsure, female. ‘Shit,’ I whisper. I open my bag and grab a packet of tissues and clean up the desk as Ethan fastens his trousers and shoves his hands through his hair, trying to make himself look presentable. I toss the tissues in the bin, take out my perfume and spray it around. Then Ethan looks at me, and I stop. I stop trying to hide who we are, what we’ve done. I don’t need to do that, not any more. ‘I’m so glad you caught me,’ I say.

‘It was my pleasure,’ he says.

‘I know,’ I tell him.

And I don’t feel guilty at all.

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Guilty Pleasure,
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