Jane O'Reilly - Indecent...Nights

‘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 I’ve ever sat in this office with him and not been wet, and I tell him that now. He closes his eyes for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. But then he opens them and starts to work me harder, twisting his fingers, curving them round to touch somewhere inside me that almost makes me scream. I bite down on my lip to hold it in.

Everything is so hot and swollen and aching, but I can’t come like this. I need more. ‘Touch my clit,’ I beg him. I’m beyond caring about what I’m saying now. The words don’t feel embarrassing, they feel right. ‘Please, Tom. Touch my clit.’

He smiles at me then. ‘Touch it yourself. Show me how you make yourself come.’

My first few strokes are tentative, uncertain, not because I don’t know how to do this, but because I’m almost afraid to let him see. ‘I’m scared,’ I admit, as he continues to torment me with the pressure of those thick fingers. He experimentally adds a third, and I almost implode, such is the pleasure.

‘Don’t be,’ he says, and there it is again, that tenderness. ‘It’s just you and me, Ellie. No one else has to know.’

He coaxes me into it so easily. I touch myself again, more pressure this time, more friction, closing my eyes at the first glimpse of my climax. ‘I can’t do this,’ I tell him desperately, as I touch myself and he works me. ‘I can’t.’

Warm breath caresses my breast. His tongue finds my nipple, the hard, sensitive tip.

And he shows me that I can.

I’m still not calm when we leave the office together, turn onto the street and start to walk into town, neither of us mentioning what we’ve just done. We talk about the weather and the ginger cat that runs across the pavement, and what happened in the episode of Game of Thrones that was on telly last night. It turns out he’s quite an expert on Game of Thrones . He’s read all the books.

‘That’s the problem with porn.’ He says it like it’s a perfectly normal thing. ‘No decent plot. What people want is Game of Thrones with real fucking.’

I imagine Game of Thrones with real fucking . ‘Yeah,’ I say faintly. ‘That would work.’

Tom stops outside the fancy delicatessen on Market Street, the one that does the most amazing sandwiches, but doesn’t go in. I stop, too. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘I really like that I can say things like this to you, and you’re not appalled. You’re not shocked, or disgusted. I feel like I could tell you anything and you would understand.’

Tell me , I think. Tell me all your filthy little secrets . I want to know what’s going on inside his head, how someone who always seemed so in control of himself could be such a mass of contradictions.

I push open the door to the delicatessen and go inside. The smell of coffee and hot, fresh bread hits me instantly, pummelling my already overworked senses. Today has been so weird that I barely know which way is up, and it’s getting weirder by the minute. Because sitting at the table opposite ours is the couple I didn’t photograph yesterday. I catch her eye completely by accident, and look away as fast as I can, but that lands my gaze on the blackboard above the counter, the one that lists all the specials, and I don’t want to look there.OK, so Tom already deals with my horrendously messy book keeping, but I can put that down to artistic tendencies. I don’t want him to know that the menu scares me just as much.

That just leaves me with Tom. Otherwise I’m gawking at the wall, and if I do that, there’s always the possibility of gaze slippage. I do what I have to do. I look straight at him.