Desk Jockey Jam by Ainslie Paton Page A

jerk and she resisted, stiffening, flattening her lips.  He let
go of her head, cursing himself for rushing this, ruining this, and she sighed,
her mouth suddenly softening.  Her hands came up to his shoulders, then twisted
around his neck and she hauled herself closer to him.  Now they were really kissing
and she was a sweet drugging sensation on his lips and fresh starched cotton in
his nose.  She went from soft to liquid, her fingers dug into his neck and he
pulled her the rest of the way into his body.
    The only sound in the room
was the whimper she made, need and want melded into a thrilling purr that made
him search for her repeat button.  He put his hand back to her head, tunnelled
his fingers through strands of glossy gold and silk and shook the clip holding
it free so her hair fell about her neck and shoulders.  His other hand was low
on her back, pressing the twist in her spine so their thighs were flush and her
breast grazed his ribs.  He fought the notion of climbing over her, pressing
her back into the cushions so he’d have her trapped against him.  He didn’t
fight the one that made him drag her across his lap.  She murmured a protest
but it was easily silence by another mind swamping kiss.
    The dress had no openings,
no buttons, no zipper, though his hands sought access, shaping across her back,
ribs, hips.  Only the vaguest memory they were somewhere public and this was
Bree kept him from running his hand under the hem and between her legs.  All
the while their conversation was wordless, tangled and wet, sucking and
searching, probing and chasing, mining the possibilities for what they could do
if that dress came off and they got horizontal.
    She stopped him when he
rolled a knuckle across her nipple.  She pushed against his arms and he let her
shift back, her hair wild, her eyes huge.  They’d done about as much as they’d
get away with without being thrown out and there was a whole weekend and clean
sheets for this.  A hard shove to his chest and he dropped his hands from her. 
“Let’s get out of here?”
    She put her feet to the
floor and stood, hands to her hair, trying to tame it.  “No.  No.”  She looked panicked. 
He got it.  They’d shifted from hate to passion with the suddenness of a freak
wave and he felt the rip of it too, low in his gut, wide across his chest and
deep in his senses.  This was the kind of thing that happened to other blokes;
had happened to Dan.
    “No.  No.  We can’t. 
That, that.  I shouldn’t have.  No.”
    He stood, reaching for
her, but she stepped back and put the table between them.  “No one here cares,
Bree.”
    She looked around, shaking
her head.  “This is wrong.  We can’t.  I can’t.”  She had a hand over forehead,
like she was holding onto her thoughts.
    “We just did, baby.”
    She dead eyed him.  “I am
not your baby.”  It felt like a slap, sharp and hard and undeserved.  “What the
hell’s wrong?”  He had to tuck his shirt in, it’s not like she hadn’t wanted to
play.
    She bent to pick up her
hairclip and bag.  She wouldn’t look at him.  “This is not happening.”
    He caught her arm.  “Hey,
talk to me.  You have to talk to me.  You can’t just walk out I’ll be in your
face on Monday.”  Was that it, was that what was freaking her out, the whole
colleagues thing?  “I get we have to keep this out of the office.  I’m good
with it.”
    She put her hand down over
his.  “We have to keep this out of everywhere.”
    “Are you saying this was a
mistake?”
    “Of course it is.  You
don’t even know me.”
    “And you have no interest
in letting me get there.”  It wasn’t a question.  He could see by looking at
her.  The Bree who’d teased him, come on to him, then followed him into that
flashflood of lust was gone.  The cold bitch was back.  He’d gotten it all so
fucking wrong.  “Fine.  Whatever.  Let me put you in a taxi.”
    She nodded to that and he
escorted her