@takebettercareofyourself (from here)
It had been a nice evening. They’d eaten (a meal Angela had been rather proud of), and while there had been two glasses of wine for her, and a bottle of beer for Jack, they weren’t drunk.
And, as it often happened when Angela and Jack spent time together, the conversation had flowed naturally from dark to light and back again. Which had been when Angela, a little red faced and giggly, had admitted to missing sex, and occasionally wearing inappropriate underwear to work, just to feel desirable.
When Jack had requested to see, Angela had assumed he’d just wanted her to show him the actual fabric. But the idea of modelling for him had entered her brain. After all, they were friends, it wouldn’t be weird, right?
Stood in the doorway, wrapped barely in red lace and a bra that could barely claim the title, Angela felt her face flush. Especially upon Jack’s growled words.
But her feet carried her across the room, coming to stop in front of Jack. Her hands were clasped in front of her and she bit her lip. “You like them?”
It’s a bad idea. It was a bad idea when it started, and it’s a bad idea now. Jack’s breath is caught somewhere in his throat when Angela emerges from her bedroom, gift-wrapped in thin, crimson lace that’s vaguely blurry but still makes his heart pound. They’re friends, and more importantly they’re colleagues, and Jack doesn’t even have being drunk as an excuse but...
“Yeah,” he says, a little breathlessly. “Looks good, Ange.”
She’s close enough to touch. He could pull her into his lap, if he wanted. He could lean forwards and sink his teeth into the curve of her hip.
Long fingers brush up the outsides of her thighs, just-barely skimming against red fabric. Jack tips his head back against the sofa, looks up at Angela with eyes that are slowly going to shit but the pupils of which are dark and blown. He sits up straighter, leans up towards her.
(It’s still a bad idea.)
Jack doesn’t listen.
“Can I kiss you?”
