“How do you do that?” she asks him in disbelief, still breathless as she stretches her neck slightly to look over her shoulder at him. “How can you make me feel like that?”
“You inspire me,” he replies softly, smiling up at her though she can’t see him properly where he is between her thighs.
His hot mouth on her pussy again, though she’s only just come that way already, her back arching, her behind pushed high to allow access. The look on her face one of surprise, an expression making her seem somehow vulnerable, those wide open eyes, that trembling bottom lip, perhaps because she’s opening up for once, letting her guard down with this man, the first time she’s done so for so long she can’t remember.
“Oh God,” she whispers, no longer self-conscious like she was when she first stood in front of him what could have been a couple hours ago or more, when she dropped her panties to her ankles, shaking like she was hooked up to the mains, she was so nervous.
Now she cannot speak at all, it’s just breathing and even that is difficult with the pulsating energy surging through her veins from his velvet touch, the heat of his face pressed so tight against her most receptive areas. The shock of another person in such intimate contact with her most private region has dissipated but it was never completely vanquished, especially in so unusual a position as this.
The air is heady with the thick scent of her ripe sex, but with his tongue so tantalising on her clit, she no longer has any fears over whether he likes it. The kind of noises he is making down there are enough to calm her in that respect, the affectionate coaxing as he holds her behind with those strong hands reveal his comfort at being there, strange as it may seem to her. Men never used to be this way, did they?
The sound of his soft arms sliding over her thighs like the sound of silk sheets being shaken out in the gentle summer breeze. She moves a little, changing position slightly, her body twisting, her hips swivelling though careful to avoid closing herself off to him. Lying on her side now, or at least below the waist, her upper half remaining so her breasts hang under her, her elbows pressing into the mattress.
It’s such a lewd act, for a girl who has taken such pains to maintain real dignity in public since university. So dirty. His tongue teasing out the most incredible sensations from her pussy, his lips grazing her labia, his smouldering mouth so hot, so perfect. She grips the pillow as her second orgasm of the night approaches, her knuckles white in the warm, dim light of the bedside lamp.
She moans quietly, again and again, but sounding somehow unsure, like she’s forgotten how to moan like that, unused to having to moan like that. Her face twisted by bliss and confusion – affected by the unbelievable power of his touch, but also by the questions racing through her mind – how could anyone make her feel this way? How can someone, virtually a stranger, make her feel ten times better than she’s ever even made herself feel? It seems impossible, absurd. But it’s happening.
Has he been with many women? Is she now just one in a long line, one he may not even remember this time next year?
Oh, but what does it matter? He’s eating her pussy, something she’s only ever read about before, an almost mythical experience that’s come explosively true. Is he just doing it to win her? Is it going to stop if she gets involved with him? Worse, is he only with her because she is a good contact, someone who has tipped him off occasionally over the past weeks and now with a new position in the civil service has some extremely interesting information at hand?
Oh, but right now thoughts like those don’t matter, she is overwhelmed by the awesome force rippling through her vagina, her clitoris.
Now something new, a finger at the entrance to her pussy, then slipping smoothly inside her, squeezing between her labia, gliding so easily inside, she’s so wet. Penetrating her, the first penetration since she doesn’t know when, such an unusual sensation on the scale of things but so blissfully welcome as his wonderful mouth focuses on her clit, driving her ever onwards to the roof of the sensual world.
Right now she’d tell him whatever he wanted to know, however deep a secret it was for the government. She’d promise her soul to him in return for more of this, the first total satisfaction for so long.
Everything’s so normal in the office. She’s working hard, as usual, maintaining her calm. Her shoulder-length mousey hair is brushed tidily but not in any manner that might attract the opposite sex. Just like normal. Her trouser suit is smart but not in a way that might draw attention to her. She’s pretty, but she hides it behind a pair of glasses and a fringe, not to mention a borderline miserable expression. Just like she does every other day, too. It’s not exactly a thrill a minute working for the government.
She’s pretty, but she makes herself so invisible, no one in the Department even notices. She’s desexualised, like a spinster librarian. She’s a faceless civil servant among all the other faceless civil servants here, and it’s just like nothing ever changed.
“Sarah, you have those figures?”
“Uh… yeah. Hang on.”
But though it’s like nothing ever changed on the surface, underneath the frumpy outfit everything has changed for Sarah Jones. Under those librarian’s clothes, hidden from the surface normality, her pussy still tingles with memories of his touch. Everything has changed.
“That bloody journalist’s asking questions again. Barry’s seriously pissed off.”
“Here,” she says, handing an innocent sheet of paper to Piers, a sheet containing all the bad news the Department was hoping to keep to itself. Poor naïve Piers, who is being slowly but surely brought under the tainted influence of Party Politics.
“God knows how he found out,” Piers who hasn’t quite grasped the need to keep certain things to himself even among people supposedly on the same side. “Barry said if there’s a leak in the Department there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Barry’s paranoid,” she said, acting cool, dispassionate, like nothing’s changed. Low profile.
“That’s Barry’s job!” Gullible Piers, who doesn’t get that civil servants aren’t here to cover up the Labour Party’s mistakes to make the Party look good in government. Scampering off to deliver the statistics to his political master to massage before passing over to the Press.
Only she’s already given the unmassaged figures to the Press.
Her heart beating powerfully inside her as the adrenaline burns inside her veins. She’s never leaked anything before. He said he’d go to the Press Office, ask them officially for the figures to make them think there was no leak. She’d asked him if she could trust him – even after that incredible night in which he’d made her come so many times she hadn’t even counted. He’d said of course she could trust him. He’d said he wanted to see her again as he’d stroked her cheek, kissed gently under her ear. He’d said he’d call the Press Office, ask for the Department’s official figures. Calling the Press Office was proof she could trust him if she still needed it.
So there it is. He’s clearly phoned the Press Office now to put her in the clear.
But still, she’s nervous. Her heart thumping like it had ten minutes before every single piano lesson she’d had until she had been given the blessed permission to give it up at the age of ten. It’s not like she’s betrayed the nation. She may have signed the Official Secrets Act, but on the scale of things, the Press isn’t like a foreign power. In the light of the complete failure of Her Majesty’s Official Opposition to stand up to the Government in the House of Commons, the media has become the only faction to hold the Government to account. She’s only letting the British people know what’s going on.
But is that what she’s nervous about? Really?
She can’t concentrate. The text on the screen of her ludicrously old computer is swimming about, dancing away from her focus. The truth is, she’s more nervous about whether she’ll hear from him again. Though they’ve met a few times, it was only the one night. Maybe he has sex with a lot of women only once. Takes what he needs, no big deal. But it was a big deal for her – a major event. She’s opened herself up for the first time in years.
She shouldn’t feel like this, it’s only been one night. She shouldn’t be trembling all over, craving him like this, like some desperate addict gone Cold Turkey. How could she be addicted to something after such a brief exposure? But she is, she cannot deny it. She’s sitting there holding a pencil, tapping it so rapidly against the desk someone might think she had some kind of condition. For some reason, she feels slightly drunk, as though she had so much booze last night, it’s still affecting her. But she’s stone cold sober.
It was only one night, but hope is a powerful emotion: right now, her life could have finally turned flipside, her future could now be one of sheer ecstasy, every waking day so bright and thrilling. Or, it could all have been a dream and her future will be the same lifeless nine to five grind, every waking day a tireless slog from flat to Tube station to Westminster before getting back to the lonely flat again at the end.
She’s in limbo – it could all be so great now, or it could all be so terrible. She’s tasted happiness, and she can’t face another sip of anything else. The uncertainty is agony.
She’s been like this all day, though she’s quite impressed that she’s shown no sign of it whatsoever on the surface. No one in the entire Department has guessed – no one could. She was history if she did, moral high ground or not. No one in the Unit has guessed, either, which is good – those who’ve been working most closely with her. They can’t guess she’s a leak. Not if she keeps like this. She’s been working here for ages – ever since leaving college and completing the Fast Track training. The recent promotion doesn’t matter – she’s like furniture now at the Department.
How long does she have to wait? How long are you supposed to wait for a man to call? Can you call a man? Might it make you seem desperate? Might he think you’re scary, stalking him or something? Jagged Edge. She should calm down. Chill. It’s only been a matter of hours since he kissed her goodbye.
But what if he doesn’t want her? Surely it would be better to know early on. She’d lose that wonderful sense of possibility, but at least she wouldn’t be kidding herself.
He’s a great reporter. She’s read his stuff, he knows what he’s talking about, bar the odd speculative misdirection. He’s no doubt got plenty of contacts other than her, plenty more giving him way more useful information on a regular basis. Now she’s played her only good cards. She may not get anything she can offer him for a while. Has he any use for her now?
A tear slips down her cheek, and she quickly mops it up with her sleeve, dabbing rather than rubbing so as not to make her eye red. God, she’s got to control herself. Piers might be a moron and Barry a self-obsessed prick, but anything out of the ordinary at a time when the word ‘leak’ was being banded about might alert them to her.
The phone rings, the sudden shrill noise almost violent in the way it shakes her out of her introspection. It sets off her heart fluttering again. The telephone. Could be him. Could be the Party Machine. Could be heaven in human form, could be trouble in human form. The divine Jack or the repulsive Barry.
Her hand on the receiver, pausing, shivering. Heart in her mouth.
“Hi.” It’s him. Her heart pummelling her ribcage now.
“Hi,” she replies awkwardly. So nervous she can hardly make a sound. He hasn’t launched into his charming patter like before, there’s something between them now. It’s awkward. It’s no longer easy between them like it was when he was a silver-tongued journalist and she was a new contact thrilled to have someone paying attention to her every word for once.
“You were right,” he says. About what? About him having no interest in her whatsoever? No, that had been internal thoughts. “They missed off some of the figures you gave me.”
Please, her unsaid appeal, give me an answer. To hell with the bloody figures.
“I… I thought they might,” she says quietly, like a mouse. Not only because she doesn’t want anyone else to overhear their conversation.
“How are you?” he says softly, clearly referring to last night now. About to shoot her down in flames? The world is whirling around her now – it’s Monte Carlo or bust.
“Good,” she says, shaking like a leaf. “Nervous.”
He chuckles, and she laughs briefly too, the ice a little broken between them.
“How’s that pussy I like so much?” he says, and she can’t believe he’s said that. He wouldn’t say that if he didn’t want to see her any more. He might be a filthy-tongued slut, but he’s not. He can’t be. He’s charming, he’s irresistible, he’s the smoothest of the smooth.
“Are you alone in the office?” she whispers urgently, amazed he could say such a thing in the middle of a busy newsroom.
“I’m not in the office,” he says, that voice so unbelievably alluring, just the sound of his rich tones and that slight hint of gravel enough to raise the temperature between her thighs by several degrees, saying unbelievably: “I can’t stop thinking about you. The way you feel, the way you smell, the way you look, the way you taste.”
Her hand slipping between her legs. God, she can’t do this.
“When can I see you again?” he asks, and the entire essence of her being is on fire. What has she ever done to deserve this? She’s still silent as he says, “I mean, I know it might be a little soon after…” she can hear a slight tremor in his voice now, and it is clear to her he is going through the same nervous tension she is. He’s worried she doesn’t want to see him again.
“Tonight?” she says, breaking her incredulous silence. To hell with sounding desperate. She is desperate. She needs him like she’s never needed anyone.
“You have no idea how hard I am for you right now,” he says softly, and the tickle between her thighs turns into a tingle.
“You can’t say that!” she whispers urgently.
“Why not? It’s true,” he replies, and she can tell he’s smiling, that beautiful irrepressible smile of his. “No one can hear me – I’m in a phone booth.”
“But I’m in the office,” she reminds him. “You’re driving me crazy. And what if someone’s listening in?”
“Then they might like to know how incredible you are,” he says, and she blushes even though she’s only talking to him over the phone, her own smile stretched so far across her face it virtually makes her cheeks hurt. “They might like to know how amazing it is to be with you, how great you look in the altogether, how soft your skin is when I kiss you, what an unbelievable experience it is to make you come with my tongue on your pussy, how tight you are around me when we…”
“Stop!” she whispers a little breathlessly, feeling the moisture seeping from her vagina.
“Same place? Seven o’clock?”
“Okay. ‘Til then.”
The receiver hits the cradle and she has to shut her eyes and screw up her face to keep from screaming and yelling in sheer joy. She wants to get up and run through the corridors shouting about how great life is, how wonderful things are having something so good to take her mind off the mind-numbing sluggishness of life in the Department.
He wants her! He’s going to see her again – that night! She’s being given another opportunity to tear off his clothes and screw him senseless! Life is so fantastic!
But she’s still got the rest of the day to get through in the office first with damp underwear and a pussy throbbing with need.
She’s there fifteen minutes to seven, standing outside Lillywhite’s in Piccadilly Circus, one of hundreds or thousands of people there at that time, the bright neon lights all around to dispel the darkness, the hustle and bustle of pure commerce under the flashing advertising that along with Times Square in New York is some of the most famous street advertising in the world and still impresses even Londoners with its brash audacity.
Ridiculously early, but she didn’t want to be a minute late and the Tube isn’t exactly reliable and there’s that long walk to change at Green Park. Her breath forms little clouds in the chill winter air, which is threatening snow, there’s that fluttery feeling inside her again – not nerves now so much as pure unadulterated excitement. God, her pussy is soaking.
Fourteen minutes to seven. Perhaps it is too cold to be waiting here, but if she can steal a few extra minutes with him, it would be worth the suffering.
Checking the countless faces, none of them his. There’s two entrances to Lillywhite’s, what if he’s waiting outside the other one? This is the main one. He’ll find her. Numerous people coming out of the store holding carrier bags containing brand new England rugby shirts, the merchandise of champions. Christmas shopping now, not many days left. Nearly the weekend, and then could she be with him?
But still, early days. He wants to see her again tonight, but how long would this keep up? Are they rushing things? Is it true, the candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long?
“Sarah,” he surprises her, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. Twelve minutes early, twelve wonderful minutes extra to be with him. What did it matter how the candle burned? Right now, it was alight, and she was going to enjoy it.
“Jack,” she turns in his arms, reaching up to kiss him. The kiss, reminding her just how incredible he is. Even that short connection between them enough to send ripples of arousal throughout her body.
He’s a little scruffy, a journalist after all, but so sexy with his top collar undone, tie slightly askew.
“You have no idea how damp my underwear is right now,” she says, looking up into those dreamy cocoa eyes, feeling so naughty so frisky and so dirty speaking that way when she’s never done so before. Shocking even herself with such explicit words. But he’s already affecting her life so much, perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised.
That boyish grin again, melting her insides as he slips one hand under her skirt to nudge up against her wetness – outrageous in so public a place, but she doesn’t care and no one’s really looking at them anyway with so much energy and life going on all around.
“You know, I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he says, bringing his finger up to his mouth now, tasting her moisture. “You make me burn up inside.”
Such an overtly sexual gesture in the middle of Piccadilly Circus of all places, it makes her catch her breath. Enjoying her taste in front of hundreds of people, the fire in his eyes revealing his glorious intent. She blushes again self-consciously all of a sudden because she knows he now knows she’s wearing particularly special underwear. She might look like a librarian on the surface – though she’s put some make-up on by now, slipping into the toilet in the Trocadero to transform herself as best she could – but she’s now more dolled up than ever.
He gently brushes her fringe out of her face with his fingers, and she says urgently, “Let’s get out of here. I need you so badly I can hardly stand it.”
The Thistle, Piccadilly, he’s already booked in, it’s just a matter of getting the key and going up to the room. It’s a fairly low profile hotel opposite McDonald’s by Leicester Square. Not exactly where you’d expect a hotel, but it’s just where they need. A quick glance around as they step inside, no one seems to be watching them.
It’s a different room to the one the night before, but the décor is virtually the same. As she sees it, it only makes her more excited, bringing to the fore those burning memories of how it was, raising the strong likelihood of more of the same.