I always thought I was pretty good at staying professional at work, but I never expected to get caught up like this. My name’s Daniel, 28, and I’ve been working at Carmichael & Sons, a London-based marketing agency, for almost three years now. Suits and ties, banter at the coffee machine, drinking after work on Fridays – all typical office stuff. Nothing about my life has ever really felt like much of a story.
And then Emily started working in my team. She was 26, from Liverpool, straight out of a creative agency job in Manchester, and just had this energy about her. Wavy dark hair, green eyes, a wicked sense of humor, and this way of looking at you like she already knew what you were going to say next. She was friendly and open, but not flirty the way some people are. Or maybe she was, but it was so subtle I couldn’t quite tell.
We worked closely on a new account together. The first few weeks were just busy meetings, late nights in the office, sharing Deliveroo at her desk when campaigns needed final touches. One Friday, past 7, I realized everyone else was gone except the two of us. She looked up from her screen, smiled, and stretched, her t-shirt riding up slightly. “Bloody hell, is it dark already?” she said, glancing at the window behind her.
“Guess it is,” I said, almost wishing for something more interesting to say. “Want to call it a night?”
She shrugged, “Just let me finish these edits and I’m with you.” It was another excuse to hang around, and I could feel the air between us shifting. Maybe it was just me, maybe I was reading too much into it. Still, when her arm brushed mine as we headed out, I couldn’t ignore the spark. On the tube platform, we shared headphones. I told myself it was just friendly. I tried to believe it.
For days I replayed that night in my mind. At work, I caught myself watching her—how she laughed, the shirts she picked, the way she chewed the end of her pen in meetings. Sometimes, her knee would bump mine under a conference table and my thoughts would spiral. But there was a rule: don’t hook up with a co-worker. It’s messy, it’s risky. Besides, what if she just saw me as a buddy?
The turning point was our team’s after-work drinks at the Fox & Anchor. She turned up in black jeans and a red blouse that hugged her curves, her hair down and lips glossed. “You look nice tonight,” I mumbled, feeling like I was 18 again.
She shot me a look. “Thanks. You scrub up alright yourself, Daniel.” She was close, her arm brushing mine, her laugh ringing in my ears. We stood together in the back by the dart board, Mariah from PR fluttering around chatting everyone up.
After a couple of pints, Emily leaned in. “Come dance with me.” There wasn’t technically a dance floor, but she grabbed my hand anyway and twirled me into a silly two-step. I could smell her perfume, feel the heat from her body. “Not much of a dancer, are you?” she teased.
“Guess I need the right partner,” I shot back, surprising both of us.
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t back away. The conversation shifted. After a while, we ended up standing outside, shivering in the spring air, waiting for my Uber. The others were long gone. “You heading to Angel?” she asked, eyes flicking up at me.
“Yeah,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t betray me.
Emily hesitated, then said, “How about we grab a bottle of wine and continue this somewhere warmer?”
That was the moment it shifted. My head was buzzing, every warning light flashing. But I nodded. “Yeah. Why not.” My heart thudded.
We ended up in my flat, a chaotic mess of records and empty mugs. She flopped onto my sofa while I poured us a cheap merlot. She curled her feet under her and pulled off her boots, glancing at me under her lashes.
For a moment, we both just sipped wine and talked – about music, about our uni days, about old heartbreaks. I kept waiting for the spell to break, for this to go back to normal. But everything felt more loaded, electric. She slid closer on the couch. Her thighs were pressed against mine and her hand found my knee. I almost jumped.
She stared at me for a second. “Daniel…” There was something different in her voice.
I didn’t trust myself to speak. Instead, I leaned in slowly, waiting for any sign to stop. She closed the gap, her lips brushing against mine, soft at first, then firmer. She tasted like wine and peppermint gum, and suddenly her hands were in my hair, tugging me closer. There was nothing polite about it now; our tongues tangled and my hands ran under her blouse, fingers brushing her skin. She gasped.
“Wait,” she whispered, breaking the kiss. Her cheeks were flushed. “Are we really gonna do this?”
I could see the same war in her eyes that I felt. “We don’t have to,” I said, my bad attempt at chivalry mixed with desperation.
She bit her lip, looking thoughtful—and then her hand slid under my shirt. “I want to. Just… come here.”
We crashed together, laughing and sighing and kissing, my nerves giving way to pure adrenaline. I pressed her back into the cushions, feeling the outline of her bra, the rise and fall of her breathing. Her hands were warm and hungry, dragging my shirt over my head.
“I’ve thought about this,” she murmured, kissing my jaw. “In between meetings. When you’re arguing with Ben about budgets.”
“Same,” I admitted, tipping her chin up to kiss the hollow of her throat. She giggled, arching into me as I slid my hand under her blouse and traced circles around her nipples, hard and responsive. She flung her shirt aside and kissed me deeply. My fingers unhooked her bra, pulling it away to reveal her breasts. I took one into my mouth, sucking softly. She moaned and fumbled at my belt, pulling it free.
We undressed each other in a fever of hands and lips. Her jeans were tight, and our laughter mingled with hurried curses as we worked them off. Her knickers were soft cotton, damp with want. “Fuck…” she sighed, when I pressed my hand between her thighs. I slid a finger inside her, curling it, feeling how ready she was. She rolled her hips against me.
She pushed my jeans down and took my cock in her hand, stroking me slowly, watching my face. “You like that?” she purred, biting my earlobe.
“Yeah. God, you feel good.” I guided her onto her back, kissing her stomach, down the soft line of her hip. When my tongue found her clit, she gasped, thighs tensing around my head.
“Oh, fuck, Daniel…” Her fingers clutched my hair as I tasted her, flicking my tongue in circles, sucking her until she shuddered and came undone. She pulled me up, her body warm and trembling under me.
“Condom?” she managed to ask. I fumbled in my bedside drawer, rolling it on as she pulled me back over her, kissing me, clawing at my back.
I slid inside her slowly, both of us groaning. She wrapped her legs around my waist, arching into each thrust. Everything felt raw, frantic. She rocked against me, her nails dragging stinging lines down my back. Her eyes locked with mine. “Don’t stop,” she breathed, grinding up to meet me.
Our rhythm built, faster, wilder, her moans filling the room. I felt her tighten around me, her body quaking, and I couldn’t hold out any longer. I buried my face in her shoulder as I came, pulse pounding. We clung together, shaking and gasping, riding the last waves of it out.
For a minute, all we could do was laugh and catch our breath. Her hair was wild, her skin flushed, and I felt a lazy, deep satisfaction that I’d only heard about before.
Afterwards, Emily looked over at me, grinning. “So. Tomorrow’s meeting’s gonna be awkward.”
I laughed, stroking her thigh. “Fuck it. Worth it.”
She snuggled into my arms. “Yeah. It really was.”
Now, weeks later, we’re still sneaking glances over coffee and spending our nights tangled up together. Guess some risks really are worth it.