‘Can you do it or can’t you?’ I said, seeing that he wasn’t going to let things drop. ‘The IP thing, I mean.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not unless I can convincingly pretend to be a police officer, which I’d rather not, to be honest. The council whistleblower was different. He had a particular style that I was able to identify just from familiarity.’
‘OK. Well. Thanks, anyway. It was worth asking.’
Would that be enough for him?
‘Oh, come on, El. Don’t leave it there. Why was it worth asking?’
‘I can’t tell you. Not without several more of those vodkas inside me, anyway.’
‘Oh, well, if that’s the key…’ He stood up, took my empty vodka glass and headed back to the bar.
Oh, God. Why had I even brought it up? Surely there had to be other ways to deflect the Crowley lips? Why had none of these suggested themselves to me at the crucial moment?
If I told him about Mia Culpa, then he would know that I read her blog, and if he knew that I read her blog, then he would know…argh! It couldn’t be done. Not if I didn’t want an eternity of Fifty Shades jokes in the office.
On the other hand, Crowley loved a good story, and this had the potential to be just that. If only I could take out the potentially embarrassing nature of the material…no. It couldn’t be done. I’d have to fob him off.
‘Come on then, Coxy,’ he said, handing me my second vodka. ‘Get it down you. I can’t have you holding out on me.’
‘Is this a double?’ I said, squinting at the clear, slightly effervescent liquid.
‘Might be. Who do you want to track down? An ex-lover? A potential future one? A long-lost family member? I’m intrigued – and you can’t intrigue Tom Crowley and expect him to leave it there. Sorry, but my professional pride won’t stand it.’
‘Professional pride,’ I snorted. ‘Professional sticky beak.’
‘Same thing. C’mon. Who’ve you been in a Twitter storm with? Who’s been viewing your Facebook profile?’
‘Shut up,’ I moaned. ‘Talk about something else. Who’s up for the deputy editor job? Have you heard anything?’
‘Nice try, but if you want me to shut up, you’ll have to shut me up.’
I took a deep breath, downed the vodka in one and turned back to him.
‘Ask me one more time and I’ll –’
‘I won’t stop badgering you all night. And you can’t even run away from me. So just give it up, girlfriend.’
I gave it up. I took his face in both my hands and fastened my lips on his, as assertively as I knew how. I was answered by a growl low in his throat and the secure tightening of his arm around me, one hand on the back of my neck.
I’d forgotten how brilliantly he could kiss. He did it with one hundred per cent commitment, like a drowning man clinging to you for your life-giving snog. Everything in me that was tight slackened, everything that was defensive collapsed. Why would I fight something so sublime? It was like running into battle against an army of cream cakes and kittens. Embrace it, for God’s sake. It won’t hurt you.
Ah, what a deceptive voice that was.
But it entirely shouted down the other voice, the one that nagged faintly from its crushed position about how he wasn’t to be trusted and he would let me down and break my heart and so on and so forth.
Shut up, nagging voice. I don’t care about that. Let me have this moment.
I let my head slide against the back of the banquette, opening my mouth to let his tongue inside. I pushed my cheek against his, revelling in the slightly fuzzy warmth of his skin. I was drinking him in, and pouring myself back in return.
His hand – the one that wasn’t holding me in position by the neck – started fidgeting with my fussy fishnetty bits. He moved skilled fingers inside my velvet and lace bra top and, although it only covered more fishnet, he found the outline of my breast and traced it through the diamond pattern. My nipple protruded, stiff and enlarged, straining against the mesh. It would be patterned too if it didn’t subside soon. Crowley’s thumb found it and rubbed it. The gentlest pressure was shocking enough and waves of overstimulation coursed through me. I clamped my thighs together, feeling a steam heat between them.
Tom Crowley was playing with my nipples, here in a public bar, and I had absolutely no problem with it. Good manners and decorum were for other girls. I was just a horny slut, and he knew it.
The increasing fever of our embrace was causing my legs to squirm and twist, which hurt my ankle.
I whimpered into his mouth, hoping he would recognise pain rather than pleasure, but it only seemed to drive him wilder, so I had to put my hands against his chest and push him away forcibly.