to expose her skin. Still she hadn’t turned towards him, but her head tilted slightly back against his chest; not an invitation, but not rejection either.
He stroked the outside of her arms as he continued to kiss her shoulders, the tips of his fingers brushing lightly against the swell of her small, high breasts. He repeated the motion, this time
his hands moving fractionally inwards, finding her breasts more surely. Again they passed across her body, and this time, her nipples hardened beneath his touch and he heard her breath hitch.
‘Oliver,’ she murmured, stopping his hand with her own.
‘Relax,’ he whispered in her ear.
His palms swept across her belly – flatter than ever, even after four children – and then down over her toned thighs, feeling the warmth of her whippet-slim body through her
jeans.
‘Oliver, I’m in the middle of something,’ she protested.
He smiled. ‘So am I.’
He stroked the inside of her thighs. She pressed her legs together, and he didn’t force the issue, merely continuing to stroke her from her knees to her groin with the tips of his fingers,
gently, back and forth, back and forth, all the time kissing her neck, nuzzling her shoulder, and after a few moments her legs relaxed and parted again, enough for him to stroke upwards to the
centre of her.
Again, the catch of breath in her throat, the signal that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He swivelled her office chair towards him and sank to his knees in front of her. She started to
tangle her hands in his thick blond hair, to pull him upright towards her, wanting to kiss him properly, but gently he pressed her arms back against the chair. He eased her sweater upwards and
buried his face in her belly. Her skin was even softer than the cashmere sweater, scented with the subtle perfume of the gardenia body lotion she favoured. His erection pressed uncomfortably
against his zip as he slipped his fingers beneath her cotton bra, thumbing her right nipple, his breath warm against her belly as he kissed her there.
‘Please, Oliver. Not . . . not now. I can’t.’
‘Tell me you want me to stop.’
He’d found the waistband of her jeans now, was deftly unbuckling the exquisite Mexican belt he’d bought her for her last birthday, finding his way beneath the harsh denim to the
velvety skin beneath.
‘There are things we need to talk about . . .’
‘I still don’t hear you telling me to stop.’
His fingers had worked beneath her cotton knickers now, probing through the whorls of silky dark hair to the moist acorn of her clitoris. She gasped, her back arching, and this time when she
twined her hands in his hair, he let her.
‘The boys . . .’ she breathed.
‘Will be fine.’
‘They might come in.’
‘Not until they’ve learned to pick the lock.’
His erection was painful now, and he stood to unbuckle his own belt, kicking off his shoes and tugging off his socks before letting his trousers fall to the floor. He tugged at his wife’s
jeans, lifting her bottom off the chair so that he could pull them down her legs, taking her driving shoes with them.
‘Oliver – really – there’s something we have to . . . ohhh.’
For he had hooked his thumbs into the sides of her knickers, peeling them away, and buried his tongue in the slippery wet warmth of her, parting her labia with his fingers and teasing her with
quick, darting licks. She tasted slightly tangy, as she always did, his favourite taste in the world. Her clitoris swelled beneath his attention, and he gentled his tongue, barely feathering across
it. Her breath was coming faster now, and he raised his head, kneeling so that he could reach her breasts, pulling off her sweater and unfastening her bra with the ease of long practice. His hand
had replaced his tongue between her legs, two fingers sliding either side of her clitoris without actually touching it, driving her ever closer to orgasm.
As he felt her start to shudder, he
He stroked the outside of her arms as he continued to kiss her shoulders, the tips of his fingers brushing lightly against the swell of her small, high breasts. He repeated the motion, this time
his hands moving fractionally inwards, finding her breasts more surely. Again they passed across her body, and this time, her nipples hardened beneath his touch and he heard her breath hitch.
‘Oliver,’ she murmured, stopping his hand with her own.
‘Relax,’ he whispered in her ear.
His palms swept across her belly – flatter than ever, even after four children – and then down over her toned thighs, feeling the warmth of her whippet-slim body through her
jeans.
‘Oliver, I’m in the middle of something,’ she protested.
He smiled. ‘So am I.’
He stroked the inside of her thighs. She pressed her legs together, and he didn’t force the issue, merely continuing to stroke her from her knees to her groin with the tips of his fingers,
gently, back and forth, back and forth, all the time kissing her neck, nuzzling her shoulder, and after a few moments her legs relaxed and parted again, enough for him to stroke upwards to the
centre of her.
Again, the catch of breath in her throat, the signal that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He swivelled her office chair towards him and sank to his knees in front of her. She started to
tangle her hands in his thick blond hair, to pull him upright towards her, wanting to kiss him properly, but gently he pressed her arms back against the chair. He eased her sweater upwards and
buried his face in her belly. Her skin was even softer than the cashmere sweater, scented with the subtle perfume of the gardenia body lotion she favoured. His erection pressed uncomfortably
against his zip as he slipped his fingers beneath her cotton bra, thumbing her right nipple, his breath warm against her belly as he kissed her there.
‘Please, Oliver. Not . . . not now. I can’t.’
‘Tell me you want me to stop.’
He’d found the waistband of her jeans now, was deftly unbuckling the exquisite Mexican belt he’d bought her for her last birthday, finding his way beneath the harsh denim to the
velvety skin beneath.
‘There are things we need to talk about . . .’
‘I still don’t hear you telling me to stop.’
His fingers had worked beneath her cotton knickers now, probing through the whorls of silky dark hair to the moist acorn of her clitoris. She gasped, her back arching, and this time when she
twined her hands in his hair, he let her.
‘The boys . . .’ she breathed.
‘Will be fine.’
‘They might come in.’
‘Not until they’ve learned to pick the lock.’
His erection was painful now, and he stood to unbuckle his own belt, kicking off his shoes and tugging off his socks before letting his trousers fall to the floor. He tugged at his wife’s
jeans, lifting her bottom off the chair so that he could pull them down her legs, taking her driving shoes with them.
‘Oliver – really – there’s something we have to . . . ohhh.’
For he had hooked his thumbs into the sides of her knickers, peeling them away, and buried his tongue in the slippery wet warmth of her, parting her labia with his fingers and teasing her with
quick, darting licks. She tasted slightly tangy, as she always did, his favourite taste in the world. Her clitoris swelled beneath his attention, and he gentled his tongue, barely feathering across
it. Her breath was coming faster now, and he raised his head, kneeling so that he could reach her breasts, pulling off her sweater and unfastening her bra with the ease of long practice. His hand
had replaced his tongue between her legs, two fingers sliding either side of her clitoris without actually touching it, driving her ever closer to orgasm.
As he felt her start to shudder, he
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