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makes me almost rock on my stool.
    "No, not guilt. I'm not ashamed of being tough on the company, and that's a fact." His head comes up, defiant. In a flash of all-business Noah, his eyes harden and he looks like a warrior. "That place was full of dead wood, and it needed shaking up." He reaches for his glass, drains it, orders two more without consulting me.
    "You're right there. But what is it? There's something. You look shattered. Have you had some bad news?" It seems perfectly okay to challenge him now, ask probing questions. I feel like a warrior too, and with my pussy still throbbing, I imagine myself subduing him in bed, kneeling over him, holding down his arms while I force him to tongue me. The picture's so vivid that I have to gulp down another big mouthful of my gin.
    Noah drinks again too. He seems to have quite a capacity for it. But his eyes are dead level and sober as he answers me.
    "Girl trouble." He shrugs elegantly, his face both wry and strangely wounded as he stares back at me.
    Now how come I subconsciously suspected that? He's an invulnerable hard case, but like all hard cases, he has an Achilles heel too. And his is a romantic susceptibility, it seems. I don't know how I know, but some woman somewhere has hurt him.
    "Sorry to hear that," I offer cautiously. I lick my lips. Suggesting solace.
    He gets the message, and straightens up on his stool, flaunting his gorgeousness. And the more I see, the more gorgeous he seems. "There's one way to deal with it though." His eyes narrow, in my direction.
    I don't ask him what that way is, because I don't need to.
    "Hair of the dog. Or should I say bitch." He gives a little shrug and a quirk of his lips at his lapse in political correctness, then slips off his stool, swoops up his jacket and briefcase, and starts walking. I follow, suddenly well aware that the Royale Bar is in the lobby of a large hotel, and this is probably where he's staying.
    This is crazy. Unexpected and yet expected. It's been building since he first walked into the office, but we're both too professional to have succumbed to it.
    I'm not wrong about his intention, or mine, and once we're in the lift together, he confirms everything I suspected. His briefcase falls to the floor with a
clop
and his jacket follows it. In one beat of my heart, he manhandles me up against the mirrored wall, and sticks his tongue in my mouth and his hand up my skirt. He kisses me hard, jabbing, jabbing, jabbing, and grabs my crotch through my panties and gives it a rough, possessive squeeze.
    Now this is what I call an efficiency expert.
    I nearly come on the spot, I'm so excited. My head whirls, full of his delicious cologne, the one that's tantalized me all the time he's been with us, and the fumes of our shared gin. I anoint my knickers with lusty juice and his laugh of slightly tipsy victory seems to vibrate through both our bodies.
    "I knew I was right about you." He's triumphant, and he's still working me, even as he stares into my face, his eyes like stars. "I knew you were a sexy woman under all the seriousness. I knew you fancied me." Swiveling his wrist, he changes his hold on me, and his fingertips prize aside my knickers-gusset. Then he's in, right in, flicking at my clit, while with his other hand, he's round the back, squeezing my bottom cheek through my skirt. "God knows I've fancied you, Susie. It's nearly killed me, what with one thing and another."
    I moan, torn between rising on my toes and bearing down hard on his fingers. He's really unstoppable. No delicate, tentative, getting-to-know-you caresses here. He grabs hold of me like a force of nature and handles me hard. I feel like collapsing and it's only the lift wall that's holding me up. Dimly I wonder why on earth we haven't reached our floor yet, but then I see that he's pressed the "hold" button somewhere in amongst fondling.
    But we can't stay in here long, and I realize that he won't release me until I come. So, bearing down it is, and