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Guilty Pleasure
Jane O'Reilly
After hours…Architect Tasha has to work harder and longer to be taken seriously by her sexist boss, and still she loses out to her smugly arrogant male colleagues. No wonder she feels like a pressure cooker ready to explode!But working late every night Tasha has found some very creative ways to relieve that pressure once her co-workers have left for the day. Far from taking orders - in her steamy fantasies Tasha is the one issuing instructions and Ethan Hall, the most arrogant of all her fellow architects, has to do her bidding!Then one night, Ethan catches Tasha in the act. Tasha’s sure Ethan will use the discovery to sink her career so she’s stunned, then thrilled!, when he promises to make her secret fantasies a red-hot reality…
After hours…
Architect Tasha has to work harder and longer to be taken seriously by her boss, and still she loses out to her smugly arrogant male colleagues. No wonder she feels like a pressure cooker ready to explode!
But working late every night Tasha has found some very creative ways to relieve that pressure once her co-workers have left for the day. Far from taking orders - in her steamy fantasies Tasha is the one issuing instructions and her fellow (smuggest!) architect Ethan Hall has to do her bidding!
Then one night, Ethan catches Tasha in the act. Tasha’s sure Ethan will use the discovery to sink her career so she’s stunned - then thrilled! - when he promises to make her secret fantasies a red-hot reality…
Guilty Pleasure
Jane O’Reilly
Copyright (#ulink_ec524586-2dbb-5fa8-b97e-9473ac8c7554)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015
Copyright © Jane O’Reilly 2015
Jane O’Reilly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474028295
Version date: 2018-07-23
Jane O’Reilly started writing as an antidote to kids’ TV when her youngest child was a baby. Her first novel was set in her old school and involved a ghost and lots of death. It’s unpublished, which is probably for the best. Then she wrote a romance, and that, as they say, was that. She lives near London with her husband and two children. Find her at www.janeoreilly.com, on Twitter as @janeoreilly and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/janeoreillyauthor (http://www.facebook.com/janeoreillyauthor)
Contents
Cover (#u5cdd71da-4e54-5f69-a9dd-1b4f5c41b910)
Blurb (#u94aacb96-c41c-54b0-91d2-eb318d1bd479)
Title Page (#uf37a5ae5-b269-537e-9ed4-4ea2358d3b84)
Copyright (#ulink_d9414914-71dc-5d2f-8adc-0a13416a69fd)
Author Bio (#ubada082e-02a0-55c4-9e55-f28ab744098c)
Chapter One (#ubc286ae3-a024-5d8b-ac40-20f910fd4b6c)
Chapter Two (#u155d1a6f-15ec-5be7-84e9-a1b72d9f6610)
Chapter Three (#u6f6140e0-e39e-5253-95da-88673d257215)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_e2157553-1a01-5a0b-b51a-6c7a23075322)
A couple of weeks ago, I discovered the glory of masturbating at work. It happened completely by accident. I was working late, as usual. I’d had a crap day, as usual. I was stressed and bored and my brain wouldn’t co-operate. Everyone else had gone home. I was the only one there, sitting behind my desk in my office and playing around with plans for a house, and my clit just sort of…tingled.
I tried to ignore it, really I did, but the tingle wouldn’t go away. So I unfastened my trousers and put my hand in my knickers and worked myself into the best orgasm I’d ever had, and the next day I did it again. And the day after that, and the day after that until it was a regular part of my daily routine.
I think about it all day, about sliding my hand between my legs and playing with myself until I’m wet and hot and throbbing. About sitting back in my swivel chair and propping my feet on the edge of the desk and coming. I think about it as I’m drafting plans and drinking coffee and eating lunch at my desk. I think about it when I’m on the phone, when I’m charming clients, when Ethan Hall walks in every morning in his plain black suit, with his red gold hair pushed back into those thick waves that constantly seem about to misbehave. His office is directly opposite mine, and he never shuts his door properly. I watch him as he sits down at his desk, as he works endlessly, silently.
He’s like a bloody robot. Before he got here, I was the hardest working person, and I was comfortable with that. I was where I wanted to be. But he took things to another level. Suddenly I wasn’t the last person to leave any more, he was. I was taking twenty-minute lunches. He wasn’t taking a lunch break at all. So I dug in. I got to work earlier. I pulled in extra clients. I worked weekends. I worked through flu, and bank holidays. I out roboted the robot. It nearly broke me to do it. And until that day when I unfastened my trousers and got myself off, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could carry on for. Work had taken over so much of my life that there was barely any of it left for me.
But the things I do in my office when I’m alone are just for me. I wonder what Ethan would say if he knew what I get up to after everyone has left. He’s so uptight, so rigid. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him smile. His tie is always knotted just so, and his desk is always tidy. Even the way he speaks is controlled, every word measured, as if he only has a certain number allocated to him and doesn’t want to waste one. He’s been working here at Thomas Associates for six months and as far as I can tell, is completely overqualified for the job. He’s early thirties, like me, no sign of a wedding ring, no sign of anything but dedication to following the rules and never wearing any colour except black. Sometimes, I think about sliding my hand inside my trousers and pleasuring myself as he watches me through the half-open door. I think about making him watch. I think about making him suffer. He’d have to stand there and watch as I broke about a million rules, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
Obviously I don’t do it. But I think about it. And today, I’ve been thinking about it even more than usual. I had a meeting with Mr Donovan, the client from hell. He changes his mind at least once a fortnight, and today was no exception. I smiled and sucked it up, even as he leaned a little too close and asked me questions that were maybe a little too personal, and thought about referring him to one of the male architects. Maybe Cal Bailey, who is all smooth charm and easy patter. Or maybe to Ethan.
But as the sole female architect in a company of far too many men, I have to deal with clients like Michael Donovan. I have to show that I can. I have to pretend that I don’t think he’s a creep. I could complain. I could ask that he be given to one of the others, like Cal, or Ethan. And then Michael Donovan would say that I was difficult, that I didn’t listen. No-one would say the words hysterical female, but everyone would be thinking them. There is no room in my career for error, no room for PMT, no room for excuses.
I stare at the plans on the screen in front of me, try to make myself focus, but I can’t. My body feels tight, my skin too small, and the urge is growing. I sneak a glance around the office, even though I know I’m alone, and then I slide my hand over the front of my trousers. I let it sit there for a moment, feeling the weight of it. If I’m going to stop myself, this would be a good time.
Hell, who am I trying to kid? I couldn’t stop myself even if I wanted to. This is my guilty pleasure, and god knows I don’t have enough of those in my life. I move my hand up, over the front of my blouse, caress my breasts through the fabric, a gentle, naughty stroke. If someone walked in now, I could drop my hand, pretend I was adjusting my bra. It would all look completely innocent.
But no-one does. It’s just me and the office, me and the four walls. I can almost hear them whispering. Go on, they seem to be saying. Go on Tasha, you dirty bitch. Do it.
A moment of hesitation, then I’m unfastening my trousers, feeling my heart start to race. I swallow down my nerves, feeling the hot rush of excitement that I always experience when I surrender to the urge, when I decide yes, just once more. There is something so deliciously exciting about doing it here, somewhere I know I shouldn’t.
I glance up at the clock. The cleaners will be here soon. I’ll have to hurry. I position myself carefully on the edge of the chair, knees splayed wide. I shove my hand inside my underwear and find my clit. It throbs beneath my fingers, and I don’t waste any more time. I get straight to business, flicking my index finger over it in little circles. God, it feels good. I’ll be quick today, I can tell. I’m close already, my cunt wet, my breasts tingling, my skin hot. I’ve had an awful day, and I need this. I just need to get off, and then I’ll be able to concentrate.
But it’s not quite right. I get myself close, but not all the way there. I need to feel the chair beneath the bare skin of my arse. I need the air in this room to caress my throbbing pussy. I need Ethan Hall to walk in here tomorrow morning and stop as the male part of his brain switches on and says it smells like cunt in here. I can imagine him standing in the middle of the room, that thought bouncing round inside his head. He’d never let it show, but he’d be thinking it.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m on my feet, shoving my trousers down to my ankles, my knickers too. I sit back in the chair, the leather cold against my naked backside, my knees spread wide. Dirty, dirty bitch, Tasha, the walls seem to say.
Yes, I think to myself. Yes I am. I close my eyes as I find my clit again. It’s so swollen and engorged that my body jerks when I touch it, and I bite down on my lip to try and keep myself quiet. Must be quiet. Must be quick. Don’t want to get caught.
Then don’t masturbate at work, the sensible part of my brain says.
Where’s the fun in that? the wicked part replies.
I squirm in the chair, angling my hips forward, my back arching as I continue to play with my clit. I shove a hand inside my bra and pinch my nipples, but that only makes the frustration worse. Hurry up, Tasha. Someone might catch you.
Yes. Yes they might. I lower my other hand between my legs and shove two fingers inside my pussy and fuck myself with my hand as I flick my clit. I wonder what someone would think if they walked in now, if they saw me in this chair, riding my hand like some sort of nympho, the kind of woman who is so horny she has to get herself off at work. Would they be disgusted? If Cal caught me, he’d have me bent over the desk with my legs spread in a heartbeat. He’d fuck me fast and hard. He’d probably slap my arse and stick a finger in a very naughty place and we’d be two dirty fuckers together. Oh yes, that works for me. I feel my climax edging closer, as I think about getting down and dirty with Cal Bailey. I bet he masturbates in his office. He probably has a porn stash in his desk drawer.
But Ethan wouldn’t. If Ethan caught me, he’d stand in the doorway in his black suit and stare at me with a disapproving look on his face and say something like When you’ve quite finished, Tasha, I need you check the extension plans I’ve drawn up for the Mackenzies.
And then I’d smile, and I’d say something like Is watching me making your cock hard? I’m fucking myself harder now, deeper, and I’m so wet that I swear I’m going to leave a puddle of pussy juice all over my chair. ‘Yeah, I bet it is,’ I say out loud. ‘I bet your dick is as stiff as a metal bar inside your trousers, Ethan Hall, you uptight bastard.’ My entire body has become my clit, my blood humming, sweat dampening my back as I dig my heels into the floor and bite down on my lip and feel my climax charging towards me. Hurry up, Tasha. Hurry up.
Fuck, it’s going to be a big one. I can feel it. ‘Fuck,’ I say, as it gets closer, as it starts to drown me. I’m going to come and I’m going to come now and oh god. It crashes through me, an explosion of pleasure that has me crying out, even though I know I have to be quiet, but the wrongness of what I’m doing is so delicious and nothing, nothing feels like this. I shudder, swearing, as another spasm grips me.
My eyes are still closed as I slump back in my chair, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. Shit, the cleaners will be here any minute. What was I thinking?
I blink fast as I force my spent, floppy body to co-operate, as I bend forwards and get hold of my trousers and pull them up. I stagger to my feet and get my trousers as far as my knees when my skin starts to prickle.
I lift my head.
Ethan Hall is stood just outside the door.
Chapter Two (#ulink_d58ff4c5-2698-5ea3-8f81-30a55a2db327)
Fuck. Fucking fuck with bells on. I yank my trousers all the way up, race over to the door and kick it shut, which in hindsight is a really stupid move, because now I’m trapped inside my office.
I lean back against the door, my heart thumping its way up into my throat. What the hell is he doing here? Did he see? Of course he saw. How much did he see? Oh god, oh god. I’ve never been prone to panic attacks, but I think I might be about to have my first one. Fantasising about him catching me is one thing. Having it actually happen is something else entirely.
I let myself have a mini meltdown for a minute or so, and then I force myself to calm down. I force myself to think logically, to think it through. Denial is going to be key here. I straighten up, fasten my trousers, tuck my blouse back in place. My fingers are sticky, but I can’t do anything about that, so I ignore it. Why did it have to be Ethan? Why couldn’t it have been Cal?
I turn, press my ear against the door, but the pounding of my pulse is so loud that I can’t hear anything over it. Crap. I can’t stay in here all night, though I’m thinking about it. I press my hands to my face, my shame burning my palms. Why didn’t I resist? Why didn’t I go home and let my favourite vibrator Mr Big have his way with me?
Why did it have to be Ethan?
I run through a million ways out of this, most of which involve variations of me staying in my office until they find my desiccated corpse on the floor, and realise that I’ve got only one option.
I’m going to have to bullshit my way out of it.
I set my fingers to the door handle, take a deep breath, steeling myself to greet him with a quick hello and act as if nothing happened. After all, I don’t really know what he saw. Maybe the desk hid everything. Maybe he turned up the second after I’d done, and all he saw was me slumped in his chair with my eyes closed, and I can pretend I felt a bit faint, that’s all. Maybe he didn’t in fact see me frigging myself senseless behind the desk, with my legs spread wide and my fingers in my pussy and a look of ecstasy on my face.
Yes. And maybe my orgasm face is attractive and not completely demented.
I open the door.
He isn’t there. The place is empty, silent except for the whirr of the air conditioning. For a second, I think that I imagined it, then I catch the faintest trace of his aftershave in the air. It hits me like a cricket bat to the stomach.
Ethan Hall just caught me masturbating. Mr Uptight, Mr Don’t-use-ten-words-when-one-will-do just caught me getting myself off right there on the swivel chair in my office. The door at the far side of our floor opens and the cleaners clatter in. I dash back to my desk, grab my handbag, flick off my computer screen and lock my desk drawer. I have to get out of here. I can’t breathe.
I push past the cleaners, barely hearing their hellos, and make my way down the stairs. By the time I make it outside I am utterly convinced that I’ve just killed my career and ruined my entire life. I walk to the train station in a complete daze, and how I get on the right tube and get off at the right stop is beyond me.
I stagger into my house and collapse on the sofa in the dark. I sit there like that for long, too long, staring mindlessly into space, trying to figure out what the hell to do now.
By the next morning, I still haven’t figured it out. I spent most of the night lying awake in bed, trying not to think about it. At best, I’ll have to change my name and leave the country. At worst…well, the worst doesn’t even bear thinking about.
I pull on a suit, a blouse, fix my hair and makeup and catch the train to work. When I get inside, everything seems normal. No-one says anything. When I sneak a glance in the direction of Ethan’s office, the door is closed. I drink coffee and work and drink more coffee and buy a pair of shoes on my phone, and by half eleven, I’m beginning to think that maybe this is going to be okay. Maybe he didn’t see. Maybe he did see, but he’s going to act like he didn’t. Maybe if we never speak of it, it didn’t happen.
And then a little box pops up on the corner of my computer screen. You have new email! I automatically click through to my inbox. It’s probably Mr Donovan, changing his mind for the fiftieth time.
It’s not from Mr Donovan.
It’s from Ethan.
I don’t want to read it. I can’t read it. I’m not going to read it. I click delete and go back to the plans I was working on, only I can’t focus and basically I’m just drawing Lego houses. Twenty minutes later, my email pings again. I click delete again. Denial, denial.
Denial doesn’t really work when he rings my office phone and I answer it. ‘Tasha,’ he says. ‘Can I have a quick word?’
‘I’m a little busy,’ I say.
‘It’s important,’ he says. His tone is sharp, and through the open door of my office, I hear fingers stop tapping away at keyboards as the admin staff out on the main floor pause and listen in to our conversation.
Damn it. My cheeks flame. ‘Fine,’ I say. I slam down the phone far harder than I intend to, then put some steel in my spine, walk through into his office and carefully close the door. He’s sat behind his desk, a vast expanse of polished oak, in a dark swivel chair the same as mine. My stomach drops to my knees. I pick at my cuticle then remember that I don’t do that any more, and stop myself.
He clears his throat. ‘About yesterday,’ he says.
Dear god, this is awkward. I know that everyone outside is wondering what’s happening in here. Wondering what we’re doing. Thomas Associates isn’t a place where a lot happens. When we swapped from digestives to custard creams, everyone talked about it for a week. This little confrontation will be gossip fodder for a month. If not longer. ‘What about it?’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘We need to talk about what happened.’
‘Which was?’ I can’t stand this. I can’t listen to him talk in that cut-glass accent. I’m tired and anxious and being in here with him must be messing with my head, because I’m looking at him and I’m remembering the way he looked when I caught that glimpse of him through the half-open door last night.
‘Tasha,’ he says quietly. ‘We both know what you were doing.’ He sits there, watching me with those pale blue eyes, his arms folded, and I’m suddenly struck by how attractive he is. It’s not the loud, brash sexiness of Cal Bailey, but something quiet and dignified, with cheekbones that could cut glass, and that accent that definitely does.
I bet he’s really filthy. Why did I not see that before?
And now I’ve got that thought in my head, I can’t get rid of it.
