I remember the exact day it happened—when my lingering feelings for Sarah finally became impossible to ignore. It started so innocently, nothing more than light teasing and quick glances at the office, but now, looking back, I can’t believe how far we let ourselves go.
I’m Matt, twenty-nine, and until about six months ago, my life was refreshingly ordinary for a guy working in a marketing firm in London. I’ve had my share of relationships—mostly forgettable, a couple of good ones, but nothing that stuck. I never saw Sarah coming, not like this, and definitely never expected things to get out of control.
Sarah is twenty-six, American, and joined our team last year as a designer. I noticed her on her first day, sitting across from my desk, nervously arranging her pens. She looked up, met my gaze, and gave me that half-smile that people do when they’re anxious but want to appear confident.
“Hey,” she said, “I’m Sarah. Is Matt your name, right? I heard someone call you that.”
Her accent made everything melt together, and I just grinned back, feeling like a dweeb. “Yeah. Welcome to the madhouse.”
That was it. Normal stuff for new hires. For weeks, we worked together on projects, had the usual office banter. She was funny, sharp, and had this way of not taking herself too seriously even when deadlines were hell. She always wore these oversized jumpers, a bit artsy, and her hair was a wild mess of dark curls. I caught myself thinking about her a lot. It was harmless, I told myself. People have crushes at work all the time. It’ll pass.
But that was wishful thinking.
The turning point was the night of the quarterly office party. Everyone was drinking, music was loud, people were yelling over each other and the bar was overcrowded. I kept finding Sarah in different corners of the room, always a smile, always half a drink in hand.
Near midnight, we both slid out for some air, standing side by side in the small, murky alley behind the bar. Our conversation just flowed, easy, warm—the drinks helped, but mostly it was her. There wasn’t any awkwardness, no running out of things to say. I started noticing little things about her: the way her voice dropped when she was tired, the way her lips curled with every sarcastic comment.
She nudged my shoulder. “You’re not as serious as you pretend to be, you know.”
“Oh, I pretend really badly then,” I said, grinning at her. “Do I?”
She laughed, and the sound echoed off the bricks. “You do. But I like it.”
I didn’t mean to—I really didn’t—but I stared at her a little too long. Dared to let my imagination run wild. There was something about her mouth, her laugh, the way her body was turned half toward me. Suddenly the air felt heavy with something we both knew and neither of us would say aloud. That was the first spark, the warning shot. But I pushed the thought away. I was her coworker and, complication aside, I wasn’t even sure if she’d be into me like that.
The next week was torture. Every conversation, every time our hands brushed when swapping files or coffee cups, every bit of accidental touch felt loaded. I forced myself not to look, not to dwell on the way her hips stretched those faded jeans or how she sometimes bit her lower lip when focusing. Little details—all burning into me, reminding me it was a bad idea.
Then, I started catching her staring back, the glances lingering just a bit too long. One day, during a late meeting, the office emptied out quickly but she stuck around, helping me gather notes.
She leaned in, her hair brushing against my chin as she read something off my laptop screen. I swear her hand touched my knee—just a fraction, but enough to light every nerve in my body.
I hesitated, heart racing.
She straightened up, and there was dead silence, the hum of the air conditioning suddenly too loud. She looked at me, eyes dark and unreadable.
“This is dangerous,” she muttered, as if reading my mind. I didn’t move. She was so close I could feel warmth radiating from her skin.
“Maybe that’s why it’s so tempting,” I replied, half afraid, half desperate to see if she’d pull away.
Sarah stared at me, her cheeks flushed. She let out a breath and grabbed her bag, turning away.
“I should go,” she said. “See you tomorrow?”
I nodded, trying to suppress my disappointment. “Yeah. Night, Sarah.”
She paused in the doorway. “Matt…?”
“Yeah?”
She looked back, a small tight smile on her lips. “I think you’re right. It is tempting.”
I could barely sleep that night—my mind racing, playing every moment on loop. Was she flirting? Was she testing me? The next couple of days, I was restless, overthinking every interaction. I wanted her, but my head warred with my body. Was risking our jobs really worth it? Was she actually into me or just enjoying the tension?
We met for coffee one Saturday, officially to brainstorm a new campaign, unofficially to see if things would finally break.
She was in a plain black t-shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back. She didn’t look at me for the first five minutes, fiddling with her cup, seemingly as anxious as I was.
Finally, she said, “Are we going to pretend this isn’t happening?”
I nearly choked on my coffee. “Pretend what’s not happening?”
She shot me a look, annoyed and amused all at once. “You know what I mean. This… thing. It’s driving me insane, Matt.”
I was stunned for a moment. Then it tumbled out—too honest, too raw. “Yeah. Same for me.”
Sarah shifted in her seat. “I shouldn’t want this. We work together; we see each other every day. I like my job. I like you.” She reached out, taking my hand, threading her fingers into mine. “But I really fucking want you.”
That did something to me. I squeezed her fingers. “I want you too, Sarah. So much more than I should.”
Her thumb brushed over my knuckles. We were both breathing deeper now, the world outside blurring into background noise. She let go, giving me a sly grin. “Want to come over? I live close.”
I must’ve grinned like an idiot but I nodded, scrambling to pay the bill. The walk was silent—tense, thrilling. I felt her trembling when I reached for her hand as we climbed the steps to her tiny flat at the top of an old Victorian building.
Inside, she tossed her keys, kicked off her shoes, and stood in the middle of the living room, almost daring me to close the distance.
I did.
My hands found her waist, and she looked at me, searching my face, her lips parted just slightly. For a second, I hesitated—one last check to see if she was sure. Her hands threaded through my hair and she pulled me into her, her mouth hot and hungry against mine.
Her body pressed to mine, and it was like it had always been inevitable. I slid my hands along her curves, tugging her tight black shirt up, fingers grazing bare skin, feeling her shiver against me. She pulled away only to yank her shirt off, her skin flushed, a black bra barely covering her. My mouth dropped to her neck, sucking a mark into her skin as her nails dug into my shoulders, desperate and needy.
She unfastened her bra, letting it fall, her breasts warm and full in my hands. I made some half-choked sound as I buried my face between them, licking and sucking, loving how her breath hitched.
Sarah’s hands were everywhere—on my chest, sliding my shirt over my head, nails scraping lightly down my back. She tugged at my jeans, impatient, and I helped her, kicking them off, then feeling her palm slide along my hard cock, stroking me through my boxers. I groaned, grinding myself into her hand.
I pushed her back onto the couch, kneeling between her legs, shoving her jeans and underwear down in one go. She gasped, spreading her legs for me, and I just stared for a second, taking in the sight of her—wet, wanting, eyes dark and hungry.
My mouth found her clit, tongue circling, flicking, sucking until she was writhing beneath me, grabbing my hair, moaning my name. Her taste was addictive. I slipped fingers inside her as she bucked her hips up, nearly sobbing as she came, her thighs clenching my head.
“Fuck, Matt,” she panted, pulling me up, fingers fumbling at my boxers, desperate for more.
I shoved inside her, both of us gasping, the sudden heat and tightness too much. She clung to me, legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper, harder. Our movements were frantic, bodies crashing together again and again. I thrust harder, her nails dragging down my back as she moaned, biting into my shoulder, and I was close, so close. Her body tensed and then she was cumming again, shuddering around me, drawing out my orgasm with a low, desperate cry.
Afterwards, we stayed tangled together, slick with sweat, hearts thumping in perfect unison. She pressed a kiss to my temple and grinned, sexy and satisfied.
“So, that happened,” she whispered.
“Yeah. That definitely happened.”
It didn’t fix everything—office drama, secrecy, the risk of getting caught—but in that quiet, breathless moment nothing mattered except her and me. And I knew I’d risk it all to have it again.