I’ve never been the guy who gets himself tangled up in risky work affairs. But Emma was different from the very first day she joined our London office—a kind of energy you felt before you even turned toward her voice. Her cubicle was next to mine, and I’d catch myself stealing glances I had no business stealing: her lips half-parted in thought, an ankle slipping out of those black heels, fingertips tapping the desk, restless.
I guess it’s worth saying that I’m a pretty boring dude, all things considered. Twenty-seven, marketing, nearly invisible unless someone needs help with Excel. But Emma brought out something sharp in me—a sense of being alive, or maybe just miserably aware of my own desires. She was American, a Californian, and every word was this mix of sunlight and mischief. On the second week, I started timing when I made my coffee runs. Pathetic, but—well, you’d do it, too, if you met her.
I kept it casual for as long as I could. There was the Friday pub crew after work, where she’d bump into me at the bar. Her hand found my forearm and she’d mutter, “Aaron, protect me, these pints are dangerous.” It was always a joke, but I felt the spark in my chest each time. And sometimes, I’d catch her looking back, too, eyes pinned on me just a little too long for it to mean nothing. Still, everything about Emma broadcasted confidence I didn’t think I deserved.
Three weeks into her start, I was working late on a presentation. Most of the office had cleared out, the city outside gone blue with fog and neon. I was tired. My head was heavy when Emma called out, “Anyone left besides the cleaning crew?” I made some joke back, my head over the partition.
“Just me and the ghost of failed campaigns,” I said, and her smile was slow as she stood, stretching. “Mind if I hang out over here?” she asked. As if I’d say no.
She pulled up a chair so close her knee knocked mine. She was still in her blazer, the silk of her blouse open just a button lower than HR would tolerate during the day. She smelled like citrus and sweat. We went over my slides, red pens in hand, her voice lowering as the building emptied out. She leaned in to point at the screen and her hair brushed my cheek. I felt a surge of electricity shoot through my entire body—like something charged and reckless.
We sat like that for nearly an hour: my words stalling out, her laughter filling every little crack in the silence. When she leaned in again, my heart was racing in my throat. Her hand lingered on my wrist just a second longer. Her eyes met mine and, Christ, I almost said something.
But I didn’t. What I did was stand up, mutter that I should probably get some air. I paced around the kitchenette, palms sweating, making excuses to myself. She’s just being friendly. I’m reading too much into every little stare. I opened a can of Coke I didn’t want, my chest aching from how hard I wanted her.
By the time I returned to my desk, Emma was packing up. For a moment, she caught my eye. “Walk me to the tube?” she asked. It wasn’t a question—I followed her out, heartsick and jittery. We rode the lift down, alone except for the sweep of city night in the glass.
“Nervous?” she murmured, catching the stare I’d meant to hide.
“Should I be?” I tried. She bit her lip, a flash of something hungry there, then looked away.
We walked in silence. It should’ve ended there, but it didn’t. We’d reached the entrance to Holborn station when she paused by the street, her gaze flicking up to meet mine.
“Aaron,” she said, “do you ever feel like something massive is about to happen but you’re not sure if you’ll screw it all up?”
She was so beautiful I could barely breathe. “Only when you’re around,” I admitted, feeling weirdly brave.
She laughed and reached for my hand. It lit me on fire. “Come on,” she said, tugging me down the side street away from the station. Her thumb traced circles over the back of my hand. She pressed me up against the damp brick by the stairwell to an office supply shop, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking: I was just tasting her mouth as we kissed, hard and hungry, mouths crashing, her teeth scraping against my lip.
Guilt flickered for a second—what if someone from the office saw? But she pressed against me, her body fitting against mine so perfectly, and I got lost in her. She moaned softly, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
We pulled back, panting. “Your flat or mine?” she asked. I hesitated, fear burning in my stomach. But the way she looked at me—like she’d waited a lifetime for this—shattered every scrap of anxiety I clung to.
Emma snatched a black cab. The ride was a blur: her hand sliding to rest on my thigh, my own drifting up her skirt’s hem. We were grinning like idiots, caught between barely-contained lust and fits of laughter as the cabbie grumbled at late-night traffic. She whispered filthy things in my ear—the things she wanted to do to me, to have me do to her. My cock was straining in my trousers before she even leaned in to taste my neck, teeth scraping.
Inside her flat, the world got small. There was nothing but her lips on mine, her hands tearing at my shirt, dragging me down to her bed. Clothes were lost in the shuffle, hands exploring skin we’d both fantasized about for weeks. With every brush of skin, every shuddering breath, that nervous ache melted away. There was only heat, friction, the delicious slide of her legs around my waist as I pressed her back into the mattress. Her laughter had turned throaty, urgent.
We didn’t talk much—not for a while. Just mouths, skin, sweat, the slap of our bodies and her voice in my ear. She was so fucking wet for me, moaning my name as I pushed inside her, slow and hungry. I felt her nails raking down my back, pulling me deeper. We moved together, rough and desperate, as if we’d both been starving and finally found something to feed ourselves with.
I lost myself in her. When we came, it was with a punch of pleasure so bright I thought I’d black out—her legs locked around me, bodies slick, all of London’s noise falling away until there was only this perfect, secret heat between us. We collapsed together, limbs tangled. Her breath slowed against my neck, fingers entwined with mine.
Afterwards, in the hush, she rolled over to face me, smile still playing at her lips. “So… Was it as ‘massive’ as you thought it’d be?”
I grinned back, my nerves long gone. “I’m honestly not sure I could ever go back to normal now,” I whispered. And I meant it.
With Emma pressed against me, her skin still warm and sticky from sweat, my heart pounding, I thought maybe I’d never want to.