Page 82 of While I’m Still Here

He fumbles with his belt, the clink of metal obscenely loud in the small room. I reach down to help, my fingers brushing his, and he laughs—a shaky, breathless sound. “Three years,” he mutters. “Three bloody years of imagining this and now I can’t even work a belt.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“I’m a disaster.”

“A handsome disaster.”

He kisses me then, deep and consuming, and I forget about the door and Sarah and the biscuit tin. His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against mine, and I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer.

When he pushes into me, the stretch is sudden and perfect. I cry out against his lips, and he swallows the sound, one hand clamping over my mouth.

“Quiet,” he breathes. “Unless you want the whole office to know.”

I bite his palm, and he grins. The phone crackles. “Bea?” Colin’s voice cuts through the haze. “Is he inside you?”

“I’m inside of her,” Danny responds for me. “She’s so fucking tight. Taking me so well.”

A long pause. “Good girl,” comes from the phone.

Danny’s hips begin to move, slow at first, deliberate, each thrust pressing me back against the counter. I don’t care. My hands fist in his shirt, knuckles white, and I watch his face as he falls apart above me. “You feel—” He stops, shakes his head. “Fuck. You feel incredible.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

He picks up the pace. The counter creaks. The kettle wobbles. I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper, and Danny’s thumb finds my clit, circling with a precision that makes my vision blur. On the phone, Colin’s breathing has gone ragged. I can hear the familiar rhythm of his hand, the hitch in his throat that means he’s close. The thought of him touching himself while listening to me—to us—sends a jolt through my already frayed nerves. “Colin,” I gasp.

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Danny’s forehead presses to mine. His rhythm falters, then steadies. “I’m not going to last,” he admits, voice cracking. “God, Bea, I’m sorry⁠—”

“Don’t apologise. Just⁠—”

He thrusts once more, deep, and I shatter. The orgasm rolls through me in sharp, stuttering waves, my nails digging into his shoulders, my mouth open in a silent scream. Danny follows a heartbeat later, burying his face in my neck, his whole body shuddering.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of our breathing. The phone hisses softly. Somewhere down the corridor, someone laughs. Danny pulls back first. His shirt is ruined, sweat-dark and wrinkled. He looks at me like I’ve just told him the meaning of life.

“Your dress,” he says.

I look down. The zipper is still undone, the fabric bunched at my waist. My knickers are stretched sideways and probably ruined. I feel raw and used and absolutely fucking alive.

Colin’s voice filters through the speaker. “Bea? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” I pick up the phone, hold it to my ear. “Are you?”

“Yeah.” He sounds wrecked. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Danny tucks himself back into his trousers, then reaches for the kettle. “Tea?”

“What?”

“Tea.” He’s trying to smirk, but it comes out wobbly. “You look like you need tea.”

I laugh—a real laugh, startled out of me. “You’re insane.”

“We established that ten minutes ago.”

I slide off the counter, wincing at the ache between my legs. My dress is a mess. My hair is a disaster. I look like I’ve been shagged in a cupboard. Which, technically, I have.