The Administration Series (90 page)

God, that was good. If she didn't get on with it, he wouldn't be able to stop himself rolling her over on the sofa and fucking her, very hard and not for very long.

Then he had to pull his fingers away quickly as he felt her start to bite down. Her hands dug into his shoulders and her head fell forwards, and she moaned again as she began to contract around his cock, still pressing down hard onto him.

He meant to wait for her to finish, but his remaining self-control abruptly evaporated. Grabbing her hips, he lifted her and then pulled her down, thrusting up to meet her. "Move, Sara. Now. Fuck me."

She did, bracing herself on the back of the sofa and his shoulder. She wasn't very well coordinated — neither of them were — but it didn't matter. The sofa wasn't terribly comfortable, they still had all their clothes on, and her knickers were stretched against the side of his cock, but those things didn't matter either.

It felt like something stolen, and it was. Perfect admin, perfect fuck. He was taking something she hadn't meant to give him, letting her do something that her mind hadn't wanted and her body had been gagging for. The idea of that had him almost there, and the feel of her tight around him, still twitching from her own orgasm, was enough to carry him the rest of the way.

Then he was coming, coming into her. Sara. He pulled her down, pressing her close and kissing her hard for as long as it lasted.

When he woke up, he found her chin dug into his shoulder and what felt like about six elbows jammed into other bits of him. For someone so petite, she felt like a hell of a weight. He had a terrible crick in his neck and he was extremely messy.

Taking hold of her wrists, he eased her up and slid out from underneath her, leaving her lying on the sofa, blinking at him with drunken bemusement as he sat on the floor beside her.

"Where're you going?" she asked.

"To bed."

"Oh. Okay." She rolled onto her side and curled up. "Night, then. Love you. D'you know I love you?"

"You told me before."

She smiled, her eyes closing. "Good. Love you. Don't forget." And she fell asleep again.

Not fucking likely. He'd meant to go at once, but he sat for a while, watching her, stroking her hair away from her forehead. Asleep she looked so . . . young. So vulnerable, so un-Sara. All the passion and animation drained from her expressive face.

He licked his lips, still tasting the last kiss. Not something he usually did, kissing as he came. Maybe he should take it up, because it had felt great. Her breath going into him as he squeezed her against him. Pomegranates.

He dug out a duvet to cover her. Then he had a quick shower and went to bed, wondering what she'd have to say about it all tomorrow. Wondering, too, if she'd want to do it again, which wasn't something he found himself thinking very often.

On the very brink of sleep, he had a thought that he didn't remember in the morning.

'Love you.'

So that was what it sounded like when someone knew you, and they still meant it.

They'd left the windows clear last night, so the living room had been light for a few hours by the time he came back from his trip out. Even so, Sara was only just beginning to stir, probably woken by his return. Completely hidden by the blanket, the first sign of life was a heartfelt complaint.

"Oh . . . Christ in heaven. Oh, God, my
head
."

There was a short silence, broken only by soft moans, reminding him of last night, even though this was hangover induced rather than anything more fun. Then her nose poked out, and she said, "What can I smell?"

He began to empty the shopping bag onto the table. "Real coffee and . . . bacon sandwiches."

That produced a surprisingly lively reaction. "Bacon? You are an
angel
." She pushed the cover aside and looked up at him. "Well, maybe not an actual angel."

He sat down on the floor by the sofa, the same place he'd sat last night. She struggled upright, shook her head, then winced. She sat, eyes closed, combing her hair straight with her fingers.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Absolutely fucking
awful
. I'm never touching another drop of alcohol as long as I live."

"A week?"

"Maybe even two." She opened her eyes and reached carefully for a sandwich. "You?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Years of practise." He took the lids off the coffees.

"Is this your flat?" she asked through a mouthful of sandwich. "I don't remember ending up here. In fact, I don't remember a single thing after we left the club. Did I do anything horrendously embarrassing?"

"Nothing at all," he said automatically. Then he took a sip of coffee, thought about it, and added, "Well, not unless you'd be horrendously embarrassed by crawling all over me and offering to fuck me."

She stared at him, her mouth falling open. Then she licked crumbs from her lips and said, "Jesus. Tell me I didn't."

"I'm pretty sure you did. It was fairly memorable."

"Oh, God. I'm really sorry. I don't — " Then she stopped dead, suspicion dawning on her face. "You . . . we didn't?"

Either she'd forgotten everything, or she was a very good actor. For a moment he thought about telling the truth just to find out which. Then he shook his head. "You fell asleep before there was any serious damage done. Even I have a minimum consciousness level requirement for a fuck, however fuckable the woman is who's passed out on top of me."

She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Thanks. Because, you know, I'd have to apply for a transfer. If we had."

He took a sandwich. "I don't see why."

She had a mouthful of coffee. "Ah, that's hot. Because it's a disaster. Screwing, not the coffee. Coffee's fine. The whole fundamental idea, nothing personal to you. You're my boss, I work for you, that's the way it is. It's not equal — you can't base a relationship on that."

That left an opening. "And what about just fucking?"

She shrugged. "I don't do 'just fucking'."

She had last night, and very nicely. "Maybe you should try it."

She took a second, more cautious, sip of the coffee. "No, thanks. And even if I did, it wouldn't be with you. It wouldn't stay that simple. I've seen it happen before. It screws up both people's jobs, because neither of them knows what they're supposed to be any more."

"No danger of that."

"No?"

"No. I know perfectly well who's in charge."

She grinned. "I won't ask."

He concentrated on the food, wondering if she really didn't remember, or if she was pretending. She must know — he'd come inside her and she'd been dripping wet anyway. Admittedly, most of it had ended up on him, but even so. Maybe she'd gone to the toilet in the night, still completely hammered, dealt with the remaining evidence and forgotten that, too. He had no idea if that was possible (how would he know?), but it didn't sound absolutely impossible.

Whatever, he wasn't going to tell her if she didn't want to know. She'd been pretty firm about the transfer; there was no point losing the best admin in the section over something so trivial. He'd still have liked to do it again, but at the same time there was an odd relief that they wouldn't.

For a few seconds he wondered why. Then he took another sandwich and decided not to dwell on it.

The door of the flat closed behind Sara and, when she was sure he wasn't going to come out after her, she stopped and leaned against the wall. Of all the stupid things she'd done in the nineteen years of her life so far, this was probably among the top three.

She'd screwed him. She'd told him she loved him, which she obviously didn't mean. Or as a friend, that was all. It had been the high from the end of the investigation, the knowledge that he was safe and the bastards in management weren't going to leave him to twist.

Although some of the exact wording was mercifully hazy from the alcohol and whatever pills he'd been handing out, she'd told him a lot more than that. Fantasies. She hated telling fantasies anyway, and here it was a disaster. How the hell would she manage to face him in the office on Monday? She'd never play bloody squash again, that was for sure.

They'd been getting on so well until now, professionally. She knew that she did a good job, and that he appreciated that she did. She'd let herself start to like him; he was a great boss, and she'd thought he was turning into a good friend.

Now she'd fucked it all up. Literally.

She tried asking herself why, once, then decided she was too hung over for lying to herself. Why was easy. She been pissed enough, and high enough, to forget all the reasons it would be a disaster, and remember all the reasons it would be great. Which were, in reverse order, that he was blond, tall, handsome, incredibly fit, and that she'd fancied him something wicked since the first day she'd been assigned to him.

However, when it came down to it, he was still a para, and they were all, in essence, fucked. Dangerous people.

She'd meant every word she'd said to him about not sleeping with her boss. It was only sensible, wherever you worked. Working at I&I, with para-investigators and interrogators, it had another dimension. When she'd started the training, among all the computer courses, interrogation habituation and other practical things, one of the senior admins teaching the course had taken her aside and explained it.

He'd started off with questions. Do you know what personality disordered means? Do you know what a sociopath is, clinically speaking? When Sara has said no, he'd explained. And when she'd asked, "
All
of them?" he'd smiled, obviously used to the reaction.

"To some extent. And every para you meet will seem like the golden exception to the rule, if they're any good at what they do. You're free to ignore this, but don't come crying to anyone if you play with fire and find out it's hotter than you wanted."

She'd made the first big mistake — she'd thought Toreth was different. Even now, sober and chagrined, she could almost see why. Last night she'd felt something with him, surely? A connection. Something between them that wasn't just sex.

She shook her head to clear the idea, then clutched her temples and moaned. This God-awful hangover was the consequence of the 'connection'. Drugs and booze, that was all it had been. Toreth was as broken as any of them.

Partly that was what had led to this mistake. Now and then she felt weirdly sorry for him. Maybe that was why she'd said she loved him, because he seemed to need it so much. There was something lonely about him, even though as far as she could ever tell he was perfectly content with his life of work, the gym, drinking, and screwing an endless procession of strangers. It would make
her
feel lonely.

Well, now she'd joined the procession, and he'd lied to her. He'd lied about screwing her, which somehow felt horrible, even though she'd wanted him to do it. She'd started the lie rolling, when she told him she didn't remember anything. Maybe he was just being polite, or more likely he didn't want to cope with her getting hysterical if he told her that she'd come like a train, twice, and fucked him with every sign of keen enjoyment.

Or maybe it was because he was hoping to do it again next time she was too far gone to resist? Or because he'd been pissed too and hadn't particularly wanted her, she'd just been available? Or because she'd been such an awful fuck?

She grinned. At least that hadn't seemed to be a problem. Her lips still felt imprinted with the kiss he'd given her; she'd thought he was going to break her back, he'd held on to her so tightly as he came. She doubted there were any complaints on the physical score.

She felt a warm flush, just from thinking about it, so she terminated the reminiscence sharply. She wasn't getting into this.

Whatever the reason, he was willing to pretend he'd forgotten what she'd done, and what she'd said. He hadn't said anything about 'love', only that she'd offered to fuck him. Well, that was a good start.

She'd meant it when she said she didn't do casual screwing. She knew her limits; she couldn't keep it casual. Toreth, dangerous, incapable of love and chronically unfaithful, was so far from being a potential partner for anyone that she caught herself feeling sorry for him again.

It was pointless. He wasn't unhappy with what he was.

She'd have to learn to accept it too. So she would realign her expectations and feelings towards him. She didn't want to stop thinking of him as a friend, or at least as more than simply her boss, but she'd be more careful to remember what he was, what
his
limits were. If his attitude changed towards her at work because of last night, then she could always apply for a transfer.

Most importantly, she would never, ever, fuck him again. It hadn't happened — all she had to do now was make sure it didn't happen again.

When Sara announced his visitor, Toreth wondered briefly
if she
was winding him up. Warrick hadn't visited I&I since
Marian
Tanit's death.

"What can I do for you?" Toreth asked, as Sara
reluctantly closed
the door behind her.

Warrick seemed to weigh up a couple of different
openings, then
simply said, "Where were you last night?"

Fortunately, he'd set the story up this morning. "I went
out with
Sara and a few other people from work."

"No, you didn't."

Toreth shrugged and gestured to the door. "Ask Sara if
you don't
believe me."

"And listen to her lying on your behalf? I don't think
so."

"What?"

"I
saw
you. Not with Sara." Warrick crossed to
the desk,
movements stiff with anger. "If you're going to go to the
trouble of
lying to me — and frankly I don't understand why you
bother — you could
at least go to the additional trouble of taking your fuck of
the day
somewhere a little further away from the AERC."

At that point he should have given up, but he felt
unexpectedly
defensive. "If you see me with someone, that doesn't mean
I'm
fucking them. I do
talk
to people sometimes."