Just let it go, Jen.

Of course that was his advice, Jen thought grumpily as she read the incoming text message from Nick. What else could she expect from Nick, Nick who was so calm, so cool, so endlessly unruffled, Nick who took everything in his stride, with an easy grin and not even an ounce of ego? If the brass had swooped in and snatched his case right out of his hands and passed it off to Serious Crime because some politician had decided he wasn't the right man for the job, Nick would probably just smile and say let them have it. Jen, though, Jen was seething. It smelled like a coverup to her, and she hated the thought that they'd used her - relative - youth and the fact that she was a woman to insinuate that she wasn't up to the task. Bastards.

Her mobile buzzed again; Jen sighed, and abandoned her efforts to style her hair as once more she read an incoming message.

It's Friday night. We're rostered off tomorrow. Just relax.

I'm trying, she typed back, and then she once more set the mobile down, returned her hands to her hair. And she was, for once, actually trying. Lisa, one of Jen's old mates from Fraud, had set her up on a blind date with a solicitor from Collingwood. The account Lisa had given of the man was favorable, and the focus of his practice would not ever see him and Jen in the courtroom. And it had been a long, long time since Jen had last tried, submitted to cocktails and small talk and wondered if maybe this time things would be different. There never seemed to be any time for dating, around the long hours she worked, but she'd found her gaze drifting towards Nick more and more in recent days, found herself recalling how comfortable they had been together in that little house they'd shared, found herself missing the security that came from having someone in her life who knew her, completely, and cared for her anyway. It wasn't Nick she missed, she told herself. It was the connection they'd shared. And surely she could find that with someone else. Couldn't she?

At the moment she was standing in her bathroom in just her underthings, trying to arrange her hair just so. She wanted it up, to show off her neck and her earrings, to stop her fingers from winding anxiously through it if the date didn't go well. In a fit of almost juvenile optimism she had chosen her favorite lingerie to wear under her black dress; a pale lavender bra, all lace and satin ribbons, and a matching lavender lace thong. Jen wasn't much a one for lace, on a normal day, and she wasn't much a one for thongs, either, but the dress was tight, and she wanted to look her best. The dress called for a thong, and the color of this set went nicely with her hair, her pale skin; she quite liked the way she looked, like this, and she rather thought the solicitor might like it, too, if things went that far. If the date ended in disaster, it wouldn't be for lack of trying on her part.

Her mobile buzzed again, and she sighed, and finished pinning her hair in place before she reached for it.

Yeah? Nick had written.

She could almost see him, his eyebrow quirked curiously, encouraging her to tell him what she was up to but not demanding more details than she was willing to give. Should she tell him that she was getting ready for a date? They were mates, after all; their woeful love lives were a not uncommon topic of discussion amongst the team. Matt was the only one with a steady partner, and the rest of them were drowning. Surely, she thought, it wasn't a big deal. Surely she could tell Nick; she told Nick everything. But somehow, in that moment, she didn't want to tell him. If it was Duncan texting her after hours on a Friday she probably wouldn't have hesitated, but this was Nick. Nick who'd only been back on the squad a few months, Nick who already meant more to her now than he ever had before, steady, reliable, sweet-faced Nick who haunted her dreams. What would he say if she told him the truth? What would he think? What did it matter, really, when they were barred from being anything more than colleagues to one another?

Time was against her, and so Jen put aside the question of just how much she wanted to tell him, and focused on her hair. From the front it looked quite nice, but she needed to make sure the back was in order. She spun around, tried to peer over her shoulder to get a better look in the mirror, but the angles were all wrong. Still, though, she wouldn't be deterred; Jen had lived on her own for so long now that she'd come up with all sorts of inventive ways to solve pesky little problems like this on her own. She snatched up her mobile, turned on the camera, and pointed it over her shoulder. This way she could stand straight, back facing the mirror, take a picture, and then examine her hairstyle in the photo for herself. Simple. Easy.

Only it wasn't simple, or easy, for the second she took the picture she turned back around, and promptly lost her balance, her feet tangling in the damp towel pooled at her feet. The mobile slid from her grip, and with a little yelp of surprise she tried to rescue it, her fingers slipping against the screen until at last she caught it, held it against her chest and tried to catch her breath. That had been an embarrassingly close call; the last thing she needed was to shatter her mobile on the bathroom tile half an hour before a blind date. The mobile was the only way for her to contact the solicitor, and she'd been counting on its GPS to get her safely to and from the restaurant, and anyway, what if something happened at work, and someone needed to reach her? Modern life was almost terrifyingly dependent on those little mobiles, and she didn't need all the headaches that would come with a broken one.

Feeling marginally more steady she went back to work, intent on checking the picture she'd taken, checking to see that all was as it should have been with her hair.

Only her heart dropped and a sick feeling settled low in her belly; somehow, in the mad scramble to save her mobile from certain disaster, she had managed to send that picture to Nick. That picture of her pale back, of the satin band of the bra against her skin, of the scrap of lavender lace running across her hips, of her ass completely bare in the thong, had already been delivered to his mobile, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Shit, shit, shit, she thought. Of course her hair looked perfect, and that was a blessing, but what on earth would Nick think when he saw it? The last thing she'd said to him was that she was trying to relax, and when he'd asked her about it she hadn't answered. Only she had answered, now. By sending him a picture of herself half-naked. What on earth was she supposed to do in this situation? Tell him it was an accident? There was no way he would believe that, she thought. She must have pressed three or four different buttons in her haste to rescue her mobile; what were the chances of her hitting all the right ones, in just the right order? Nick wasn't stupid, he'd smell something fishy. Of all the clumsy, ridiculous, juvenile things to do-

Her mobile buzzed again, and she read the message hardly breathing, mortified by the situation she'd found herself in.

I don't think you meant to send that to me, he said.

Bless him, she thought; of all the men she knew Nick was the only one who could respond to the unexpected vision of her naked ass gently, without teasing. That time Matt had discovered her in the bathroom years before he'd been awkward for days and then ham-handedly tried to ask her out on a date. Nick, though, Nick was respectful as ever. But did he think she'd meant to send it to someone else, that she was parading around in lacy lingerie on a Friday night for someone else's benefit? Technically she was, but she didn't like the thought of him knowing that.

I didn't mean to send it to anyone, she typed back with shaking fingers. It was an accident.

Would he believe her? Somehow Jen had forgotten to be mindful of the time, forgotten that she needed to leave soon; all that mattered to her, just then, was the drama playing out with Nick. She wanted to salvage this moment, wanted to find some piece of reassurance for herself, wanted to know that they would still be all right come the morning, that they would still be mates, that this fiasco wouldn't ruin things between them. She couldn't let one momentary lapse in judgement spoil the good rapport they'd worked so hard for.

No worries, came Nick's answer, and she breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't pressing her for details, wasn't trying to push his luck, wasn't petulant or salacious in his answers. If it had to happen she supposed she ought to be grateful that it was only Nick who received that particular picture; if it had been anyone else, she imagined things would have turned out quite differently.

You look good, though.

That was a stroke of boldness she hadn't been expecting from him. She thought he'd just let it slide, step away from the hand grenade she'd just lobbed at him, however unintentionally, in the name of preserving their working relationship. He hadn't, though, and now she stood chewing nervously on her lip, wondering how she ought to respond.

It was, she thought, a very flattering picture. If she could manage it Jen went for a run through the park every morning before work, and she spent some time each week in the gym at the station. She kept herself fit, and she was pragmatic enough to admit that the results of her efforts were probably rather appealing. And her ass did look good, with the little scrap of lace around her hips. And she had styled her hair perfectly, so that it gathered in a mass of soft blonde curls at the back of her head. It was, actually, a very pretty picture, and apparently Nick appreciated it.

She didn't want to think about how much that thought pleased her. It had been four years since they'd lived together, dancing around one another, but in the time they'd spent together Nick had seen every inch of her, from every possible angle. Their initial awkwardness with one another had faded quickly, and by the end of the third month they were wandering back and forth from the bathroom in their underwear. By the end of the fourth month Jen was falling asleep each night with Nick warm at her back. By the end of the six month, they were shagging whenever the opportunity presented itself - in the backseat of the car, on Hartono's yacht, once, memorably, in the shower at their little house - and by the end of a year Jen had been certain she was in love with him. But the op had ended, and they'd gone their separate ways, and four long years had passed, and now it was all behind them. Had to be behind them. It didn't matter how much she might miss him, it didn't matter that sometimes when she saw him with his shirtsleeves rolled up at the end of a long day she wanted nothing more than to fold herself into his arms, it didn't matter that sometimes when he looked at her she got the sense that he wanted the same. It didn't matter, because they were on the same crew, and the rules were clear.

Thanks, she typed back, and then before she thought better of it she added, I'm glad you liked it.

Oh, that was a stupid thing to do, she thought. It was stupid, cruel, even, to tease him, to tease them both, when what they wanted could never be. Jen left the bathroom behind and went to sit on the end of her bed, cradling her mobile in her hands, trying to calm the racing of her heart and find some way to get herself out of this mess. She should have tossed her mobile aside, put on her dress, and walked out the door. She should have ignored Nick, and left this tension to ease overnight. It wasn't as if she had to answer him; she could just go and have a nice evening with the solicitor, and forget all about this. And come Monday she was certain that Nick would be pretending that it had never happened at all, that he would read in her silence her desire to forget the whole bloody thing.

Only she didn't want to forget, not really. She wanted to see what might happen next.

And what happened next was that her mobile buzzed, again.

I miss you.

If he had said almost anything else, that would have been the end of it. If he'd commented on her ass or told her he'd delete the picture or said have a good weekend, see you Monday, Jen would have walked out the door and put the entire incident out of her mind. This, though, this was something else. This quiet acknowledgment of all that had gone before, these quiet words that so echoed her own thoughts, shook her down to her very core. It might have seemed silly, coming from anyone else; after all, it had only been a few hours since the last time they'd seen one another. Jen knew what he meant, though, because she missed him, too. She missed his arm heavy around her waist in the morning. She missed jogging through the park with him beside her. She missed his knee brushing hers at the dinner table, missed his smile around a lukewarm bottle of beer, missed the warmth of his bare chest beneath her palm, missed the way they used to talk, openly, honestly, about everything. They saw each other every day but it wasn't the same; Jen knew exactly how good it could be, just being with him, and she longed for it, desperately. The rules were clear, and she knew it wasn't allowed, but sitting there on her bed her heart began to ask the questions she had tried for so long to ignore. What if they were careful? What if no one found out? They'd made it this far without anyone realizing there was anything out of the ordinary between them, and they were both practiced liars. What if he'd been delivered once more into her life for a reason? Could she really stand to let him go?

I hate this, she typed back quickly. I hate having to pretend like you're not special to me.

He was special; he was everything to her.

We know the truth, Nick answered. That has to be enough.

It's not enough for me. I miss you, too.

Somehow it was easier to type the words sitting alone in her bedroom than it would have been to say them to his face. At least here no one was watching, at least this way no one could possibly overhear them. It was, she thought, the best opportunity they'd ever had to be honest with one another, and she didn't want it to end. She didn't want to leave this room, this moment, wanted to sit right there cradling her mobile, imagining him speaking those words to hear in his soft voice, imagining him beside her. If she were really brave, truly ready to throw caution to the wind, she could have slipped into her coat and driven straight to his house, and finished this conversation in person. But to do so would be to make it all real, somehow, to take a chance she wasn't yet sure she was willing to risk. This way was safer, but it hurt, too, because she could not see him, could not touch him, could not let him reassure her the way she needed him most.

Sometimes I think I'd do anything just to be able to touch you again.

Nick wasn't much of a talker, and there was very little romance or poetry in his speech. Over text, though, he could let his heart shine through, and Jen knew his was a heart full of passion, of devotion, of tenderness. The occasions when he let her see that part of him were rare, and precious, and she felt that this was one such moment. He had found his courage, and she wanted to do the same, wanted to step into this uncertainty with him, and watch as it all unfolded.

Sometimes I think I'd let you.

She was playing with fire, and she knew it, but she couldn't seem to stop.

Now? He asked. Like this?

What would it be like, she asked herself, if she opened the door and found him standing there, if she let him sweep her off her feet, carry her back to the bedroom, if she let him run his broad hands across the expanse of her bare skin, let him press gentle kisses to the crook of her neck? A shiver ran through her at the very thought; she knew already how it felt when he touched her, kissed her, loved her, and heat settled low in her belly at the memory of his hands against her. Would she let him in, if he came to her now? Would she let him touch her? The answer came to her at once; she wouldn't just let him, she'd beg him for it, and enjoy every second.

Yes, she told him.

Christ, Jen. I can't do this knowing you're standing there dressed like that. I can't get that picture out of my head.

I'm not standing any more, she typed back quickly. I'm in bed.

Jen was not a fool. The world had changed rather a lot since she'd first been young and experimenting with boys, but she knew how things worked, now. A mobile in hand, a soft bed at her back, and Nick on the other side of town staring at a picture of her in nothing but her lacy underwear; if they kept this up, things would likely only go in one inevitable direction. And while Jen had never done any such thing herself, never even wanted to, in the moment she was excited, and terrified, and missing him, and the potential for both pleasure and embarrassment inherent in undertaking this particular activity had set her desire rocketing to new heights. She wanted to know what he might say, knowing she was lying in bed, talking to him. She wanted to know what he was doing, on the other end of the phone, wanted to know if he was in bed, too, assailed by thoughts of her, wanting, just as she was. The instant she typed the word bed the entire timbre of the conversation had changed, and yet she had done so deliberately, eagerly. At least this way, she thought, they might find some relief. At least this way they could face the swirling tide of need that flowed between them without actually taking the plunge, without actually risking both their careers. It was, she thought, the only way he could be close to her just now when everything was so confusing.

It took longer for Nick's answer to come in this time, as if he were thinking his way feverishly through the problem at hand, trying to choose the best way to answer her. That was the thing about Nick; he never did anything halfway, and he always looked before he leaped.

You're lying in bed, half naked, and thinking of me?

Yes.

What do you want, Jen?

That was the only question that mattered, wasn't it? If she could only work out what she wanted, she knew he'd give it to her. But he would not railroad her into something she wasn't ready for, wouldn't leap ahead blindly. Nick had always waited for her to decide, and now would be no different.

I want you to touch me, she typed back. Giving up all pretense of ever leaving that room Jen shuffled back on the bed, nestled her head amongst her pillows, set her mobile on the bare skin of her belly, and closed her eyes. What would he do, if he were here with her? What would she want him to do? To settle between her thighs, his bulk heavy against the softness of her, to kiss her, the way he used to do. To run his hands -

Her mobile buzzed again and she swept it up at once.

I want that. I want to feel you.

How?

I want you under me. I want my hands on your hips. I want to kiss you. I want to taste you.

Jen shivered and took a moment to set her own hands on her hips, run them up the length of her sides, her eyes closed, imaging Nick instead, imagining him heavy above her, imagining his palms against her skin.

I want to feel that lace under my palm - with one hand she held her mobile, and with the other she reached for her own breast, her touch gentle, as his would have been, and sighed. I want to hear the sounds you make when I touch you.

Carefully Jen pulled aside the cup of her bra, ran her fingertips around her nipple and felt the electricity sparking through her veins at the memory of his hands against her, instead of her own.

What are you doing, Jen?

She held all the cards now, she knew. She could change her mind, sit up, tell him this was crazy, and put an end to it, right now. Or she could tell him the truth, and let them both burn alive beneath their need for another. To actually type out the words, to so boldly declare what she had done, what she was thinking about doing, on account of him, would be to take them both into dangerous territory. With anyone else she would have been too mortified to confess to the truth, but this was Nick, and she knew she could trust him with all of herself, with her very life. And so she told him the truth.

I'm touching myself and wishing it was you.

Was that too much? She wondered. Nick wasn't really the kind of man who went in for this sort of thing, maybe he'd think it was juvenile, or desperate, maybe he'd tell her to stop -

Take off your bra

Done, she answered the moment the scrap of lace drifted to the floor.

I wish I could see you like that

Jen smiled. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought, and lifted the mobile above her. She tried to arrange herself just so, lifted her chin, arched her back, and snapped a picture before she could think better of it. For a moment she considered that picture, the soft swells of her breasts perhaps not as big as she might have wished when she was younger, the hard furled buds of her nipples, the mess of her hair against the pillowcase, slowly slipping out of its pins. What would he think, if he could see her like that? What would he do? Was it foolish, to send him such a picture? In the world she lived in Jen knew very well how dangerous it could be to do such a thing, knew how many women suffered after trusting a man with something so personal. But Nick wasn't just any man; Nick was everything to her, and she desperately wanted to see what he'd do next. And so without any further hesitation she texted the picture to him. He hadn't been asking for it, she knew, would never have expected such a thing from her, but she liked the thought that she could still surprise him, and she liked the thought of his desire ratcheting up to new heights when he saw it. It wasn't fair, for her to be the only one lonely and wanting. She wanted him to ache, too.

You look so beautiful, he told her. Only Nick could be sweet in a moment like this, she thought. Only Nick could receive a picture like that and respond so gently. There was no crudeness in him; crass, forceful words of longing did not ever leave his lips. Although, she thought, there would be something exciting about it if they ever did, something terribly thrilling about knowing she had been the one to push him far enough, to inflame his desire enough, to make him lose his head entirely.

What are you doing, she asked him next. She could have thanked him for his kindness, told him how she longed to see him, too, asked him anything, but what she really wanted to know, more than anything else, was how this little back and forth between them was affecting him. She wanted to know where he was, if he was lying in bed, as she was, wanted to know where his hands were, whether he was touching himself, too, wanted to know if his cock was slowly growing hard with want of her, in time to the rising tide of wet hot want that swirled through her own body.

While she waited for his answer she once more closed her eyes and let her hands wander, plucked at her own nipples and drew a soft whine from her own lips as she imagined Nick's hands instead. Nick's hands, bigger, stronger than her own, relearning territory they had not explored for so long; Christ, she wanted him. Wanted him to hold her, wanted him to touch her, wanted him to love her, regulations be damned.

Before she could get too lost in her thoughts he was responding, and she once more opened her eyes, anxious to see what he'd written.

He hadn't written anything at all, as it happened; he'd sent a picture of his own, and Jen couldn't help the gasp that escaped her as she saw it. The room he was in was dark, shadows cast along the background, drawing her attention right to the center of the photograph. There was the shape of his leg, strong and bare, stretched out on a bed, but she took no notice of the leg, or the bed; all she saw was what he had intended her to see. His cock, hard already, his hand wrapped around the base of his shaft. She'd asked and he had answered; she knew, now, exactly what he was doing, and though coming from anyone else she would have thought such a picture lewd, would have laughed or cursed or looked away at once, knowing that this was Nick's cock left her breathing shallow, left her hardly blinking as she looked at it. It wasn't the first time she'd seen it, of course, but it had been so long, and seeing it now…

She had thought that she remembered him well, but remembering and seeing were two very different things. In that picture she could see him, thick and long and hard with want of her, could see his hand, the line of his thigh; he had communicated his need to her so effectively that even as she looked at him she slid her free hand down her body and beneath the lace of her thong at once. Ordinarily if she were to lose herself in pleasure like this she would have closed her eyes and imagined all sorts of things, but as it was she kept her eyes open, and focused on the sight of Nick's cock. Slowly she dragged her fingertips through her own wetness, imagined the head of his cock surging between her swollen folds, imagined the heat and the hardness of him beneath her, around her. Though Jen had enjoyed the pleasure and the company of several men throughout her life Nick outpaced them all, as far as she was concerned, not just because of the size of his cock but because of him, because of the way he focused all of himself on her, every time, whether they were fast and feverish, desperately trying to avoid detection by SIS, whether they were slow and relieved to have the chance to relax unobserved. He was, always, attentive to her, and she remembered the way he filled her, the look in his eyes when he -

Is that ok, the new message said, briefly blocking out the vision of Nick's cock and drawing Jen back into the moment. She hadn't answered him, she realized, and he must have been worried that he'd overstepped the mark, worried that he'd gone too far and she had decided to put an end to their little game. Nothing could have been further from the truth; that picture had left her dangerously close to losing all control.

Better than ok, she typed back. I want you.

There were other things she could have said, filthy, incendiary words she could have sent him, but it didn't feel right, somehow, to just spout off lines from a bad porno when the truth was that what she felt, in that moment, was so much more than a simple base need. It was Nick she needed, not just a good hard fuck, not just a momentary release. It was Nick she wanted, his arms around her, the sense of security, of peace she only found when she was with him. She wanted him.

How do you want me? He asked her next. Before she could come up with a coherent response he sent a second message through; tell me what you're doing.

Somewhere on the other side of the city Nick was lying in bed naked with his hand on his cock, probably stroking himself to the thought of her, and the truth was that at that very moment Jen was lying on her bed mostly naked with a hand in her knickers, thinking of him. Despite the distance between them and the cold bulk of her mobile in her hand she felt connected to him, somehow, felt almost as if they were in the same room, doing this thing together. And if they were going to do this thing, Jen was determined to do it properly.

Moving quickly, then, she stripped out of her knickers and rolled onto her belly, setting her mobile down on the pillow next to her face. Once more her left hand slipped down her bed, heading for the aching wetness between her thighs, and once more her right hand reached for the mobile. It was easier this way, she thought; she could read Nick's messages without having to stop what she was doing, could thrust down against her hand and imagine it was his cock instead. Yes, she thought as once more her fingertips slipped through sparse curls, teasing against her clit, this was much better.

I'm naked, she told him, typing with her right hand while still her left played against her eager sex. And I'm lying on my belly. I've got my hand between my legs, and I'm thinking about that time in Sydney.

Near the end of the SIS operation they had gone on a business trip to Sydney, and wound up staying in a home owned by Hartono. There hadn't been time for the spooks to bug the place, so while Jen and Nick - Trish and Wesley, then - had been scared out of their minds, they had also been mercifully unobserved. They had known, even then, that the end was near, had locked the door of the guest bedroom they were using and lay down on the bed wondering if Hartono was planning to do away with them that very night. For hours they'd both been wide awake, staring at the ceiling, talking quietly about what might happen next, what they'd do if Hartono did intend to strike against them, but as the night wore on no assault had come, and the conversation had turned to other things. What they were most excited to do, once they were back in their own lives. How strange it would be, to fall asleep without one another. As dawn broke Nick had rolled her beneath him, and taken her slowly, deeply from behind while she arched against his chest and tried to muffle the sound of her desperate whimpers. Nothing in all her life had ever felt as good as that, Nick's cock heavy inside her, his voice soft in her ear, promising her that he would find her again, that he would never let her go. Just thinking about it was nearly enough to undo her; she ground her hips against her hand and let her middle finger slide slowly into her own wet heat, and groaned at the sensation.

Use both hands, his next message said. I want you to slide two fingers inside, and I want you to think about me when you do. And I want you to rub your clit, and imagine it's me.

Jen laughed, breathless; she'd never heard him say the word clit before, not once in all the time they'd spent together, but there really wasn't any other way for him to tell her what he wanted, and she liked it, anyway, liked the thought of him sitting there with his hand on his cock and still thinking about her pleasure first. She did just as he asked, and her laugh turned into a groan as she stretched around her own fingers, as she slid her free hand down her body to vibrate her fingertips furiously against herself in the rhythm she knew would have her seeing stars in a moment. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, imagined Nick on his knees behind her, his arms wrapped around her, imagined she could feel his cock - which she could now recall in glorious detail, thanks to the picture he'd sent her - sliding between her legs, imagined the heat of him, the hardness of him, imagined the sound he'd make when he found her hot and wet for him, imagined -

The phone vibrated again, and Jen's eyes flew open. The screen hadn't gone dark yet, and she didn't even have to touch it to see the message he'd written. If he typed fast enough he could walk her through it without her having to touch the phone at all.

I wish I could see you, he said. Then another message, hot on the heels of the first, I wish I could see you stretched out on your stomach, fucking your hand for me.

A whimper escaped her, and her hips began to move, rocking against her hands, need building, building, coiling tighter and tighter, and -

Slide another finger in and imagine it's my cock.

Three was a bit much; Jen hardly ever bothered, when she was on her own. She knew enough about her body, knew how to find her pleasure with the least amount of effort, but she did what he'd asked, felt herself stretch around her own fingers, imagined the thick heat of his cock there instead, and oh, that was really doing it for her.

I want to hear the sounds you make, he told her then. Don't be quiet.

Jen let herself go, then. Let the moans and the whimpers come flooding out of her, heard the sound of her own voice, desperate, needy, thought of him, thought of what she was doing, because of him, thought of how much she'd rather he was here, with her, and then let the rocking of her hips and the slide of her fingers and the thought of him carry her away.

Will you come for me, Jen?

"Yes," she gasped aloud, but before she could even register her own foolishness - it wasn't as if he could hear her, anyway - she broke, shattered around her own hand, pulsing wet and needy and trembling from head to foot with the strain of it. Her heart raced in her chest and stars exploded behind her eyelids, her hips ground down against her hand, chasing this feeling; more more more, the thought swirled through her mind; oh, this was good, but it would have been better, if only he were there with her.

After a moment she caught her breath, kept her left hand sandwiched between her body and the mattress and reached for the phone with her right.

I did, she typed.

Good, came his answer. Jen stared at that word for a moment, breathless. Had he finished, thinking of her like that? Or was he still hard and wanting, still holding his cock in his hand, still waiting for more? She hoped he was, hoped that now she might have the chance to do for him what he'd done for her.

Will you come for me, Nick? She asked him.

If you want me to.

I want your cock in my mouth, she typed before she could stop herself. If they'd been together, properly together, she never would have said such a thing; she would have just done it. But separated like this, close and yet so far from one another, she knew she'd have to make do another way. When he closed his eyes did he see her, the way she'd seen him? Did it drive him mad with longing? What was he doing now, how was he touching himself? Jen had no doubt that Nick was as well versed in his body as she was in her own; surely he'd know just what to do, to bring himself the relief he sought. During the time they'd spent together Jen had learned so much about him, had learned the weight and the heat of him in her hand, learned the way the timbre of his groans changed when he was close, learned the way he shuddered when she ran her tongue along the length of him and now she wanted, desperately wanted, to do it again.

Relief and release and remembering had made her loose, left her more willing to say precisely what she was thinking, and so she didn't let shame slow the words as they came spilling out of her.

Imagine me on my knees in front of you, she told him. Imagine my hand on your cock. What else? Remember that time in the car? She'd changed tactics on him, suddenly reminded of the night she'd knelt on the passenger's seat of their rented car and wrapped her lips around the weeping head of his cock. That night, that was the first time she'd ever taken him in her mouth, and she'd set to it with a will, had licked a stripe from the base of his shaft up to the very tip of him, dragged him into her mouth and swirled her tongue round and round the head of his cock. He'd tangled his hands in her hair, had sworn as she took him in further, and further, her mouth and her hand working over him until he'd groaned, and she'd pulled back at the last second and let him spill against her hand.

Fuck, Jen, he managed to type, and she grinned, and carried on.

I'll keep my hand on you while I suck you into my mouth. I want to feel you come apart for me, Nick.

Other things she could have said popped into her head, but she quickly dismissed them. She didn't want to lie to him, or to say something just to say it; she wanted to tell him the truth. And the truth was she hated the mess of it, and would have objected if he'd tried to spill himself anywhere near her face, and the truth was he knew that, and would have known she was being disingenuous if she'd suggested a thing. It was the knowing that made the whole thing more erotic, somehow, more real, more like something that might actually happen between them. Knowing already what he sounded like, what he felt like in her mouth, knowing already the warmth of him beneath her, above her, knowing already how good it felt just to be with him, that was what made her ache. Maybe that did it for him, too. For a moment she simply lay on her belly, exhausted and relieved, staring at her phone. If he needed more, he'd tell her. If she'd done enough, he'd tell her that, too. All that was left was to wait, and see what had become of him, to imagine, for a moment, the way he would look, rocking his hips, his cock sliding through his own fist, the tendons in his neck taut with yearning, his voice low and needy. The thought of his powerful body lost in pleasure like that was nearly enough to make Jen reach for herself once more, but she waited, eager to see what Nick had to say for himself.

Christ, Jen. That was good.

Did you come?

Gonna have to change the sheets.

Jen laughed; poor bugger, she thought. He had then, come undone, because of her, because of the thought of them together, and he'd been so lost in his pleasure he hadn't paid attention, and spilled himself across his own sheets. Let him have the mess, Jen thought; she was quite glad she didn't have the same problem. Only now she was alone, and her body had cooled, and there was a chill in the room settling into her bones, and Nick was so far away from her. Only now they'd done this thing, and Jen didn't know what came next. How was she supposed to face him, come Monday, knowing what they'd both done, for each other, because of each other? How was she supposed to go on pretending she didn't want him, didn't miss him, didn't love him? How were they going to -

Jen? You all right?

She hadn't answered him yet, and he'd no doubt been unnerved by her silence. Given what had just happened between them, she could hardly blame him.

I was just wondering what happens next.

I think we need to talk.

He was right, and she knew it. Ignoring what had just happened would never work; there was no going back from this. But what was she supposed to do? Call him on the phone? Wait for him to come into the office on Monday and drag him into the Ladies' for a private chat before work?

Can you come over?

I'll be there in twenty minutes.

Jen sighed, and slid out of bed. Maybe it was reckless, to invite him over, after everything. Maybe she was still just keyed up and needy. Maybe she'd regret it, come the morning. Somehow she didn't think so, though. Somehow she felt this was exactly what they needed. Something had to give; they couldn't carry on pretending to be strangers indefinitely, and now that she knew his yearning for her matched her own longing for him, perhaps the time had come to do something about it.

Slowly she hung her dress up in the closet, and reached for her favorite floral robe. She fired off a text message to the solicitor, telling him she'd fallen ill and wouldn't be able to make their dinner date. And then she went to start the kettle, thinking of Nick, who was at that very moment driving across town, on his way back to her.