“Christ,” she muttered, breathing harder.Would Sloan know?
She could do it quickly. Take the edge off and say nothing. Sloan hadn’t specifically said she couldn’t, and yet, she felt that was an unspoken part of Sloan’s instructions.
“Fuck,” she murmured.
She squeezed her thighs together and that only made it worse.
Tipping her head back, she let the water hammer her face and chest and tried to think of anything else—Sarah’s tuna sandwich, Brandon’s stupid music, the price of milk—anything that was not Sloan’s mouth on hers, Sloan’s hand in her hair, Sloan’s voice telling her to sleep.
It didn’t work.
She slid her hand down her stomach and stopped just short, her breath catching at the realisation of how close she was to giving in. She swore again, quieter this time, and pressed her forehead to the tile.
Sloan would know. Sloan would look at her and see it.
The thought should have embarrassed her. Instead, it only made her throb harder. It wasn’t just need. It was wanting Sloan to look at her and know she’d waited, wanting to hold on to whatever this was for a little longer.
Matty dragged in a breath, forced her hand away, and turned the tap colder, the shock of it making her hiss. “Get a grip,” she muttered.
She washed quickly, the boring motions of keeping her hands busy, keeping them high and away, refusing to let them drift.
By the time she shut the water off, she was still aching, still needy, but she had managed not to give in.
Only just.
Someone banging on the door downstairs jolted her thoughts to the fact Brandon’s mates would be traipsing through the flat at any moment.
She stepped out, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around herself with shaking hands. In the mirror, her eyes were too bright, too energised, and her cheeks still pink.
“Fine,” she told her reflection. “I can do this.”
Chapter thirty-three
Sloan could not stop noticing how she was in town instead of at her desk. No one would question a day off—least of all herself. After all, she was in charge and should be the first to insist on it for someone in her situation. Running on little sleep. A night in A&E. A dependent parent. It wasn’t indulgence, but basic risk management.
And yet.
People always noticed when senior management disappeared, even for a day. No one said it out loud, but they were aware. Risk & Compliance could manage without her. She had built it that way, written the SOPs, enforced them, and trained people to follow them.
She could hardly insist on good judgement from everyone else and then ignore her own circumstances.
So why did walking past shop windows instead of sitting behind her screens still feel like she had left a door unlocked somewhere?
She pushed the thought aside as she took charge of Gloria’s wheelchair.
“Let’s stop here,” Gloria said, pointing to a small coffee shop; one Sloan had never used before. The sun was out, it was warm, and there were seats outside, some already filled with people going about their own day. “Park me there.”
Sloan manoeuvred the chair to a table and smiled at a young boy who stood quickly and pulled one of the chairs out of the way to make room for the wheelchair.
“Thank you,” she said to him as she slid Gloria into place. He pushed the chair under another table, shrugged as though it were nothing, and sat back down again. “What would you like?”
Gloria looked up at her. “A caramel latte. Then you can buzz off.”
“Charming. Where do you propose I go?”
Gloria shrugged. “Dunno. One of those fancy shops you like. Buy yourself a new jumper. Or some matching knickers for when Matty stays over again.” She chuckled to herself, knowing Sloan would surely react to the last suggestion.
Sloan rolled her eyes and went inside.
