and then? Nothing.nnAfter that night ended, with me sneaking out of the door at one in the morning before her husband Paul came home? Nothing.nnBack in work after the New Year, she was the same as she'd ever been with me. I knew that she couldn't act differently in the office, but I'd thought that there would be a call, a message, or an e-mail – something. Something to acknowledge what we'd done; done over and over, on her sofa, in the shower. Nothing.nnWork became torturous. As I say, she was the same as she'd ever been with me – the same way she had been when just the thought of fucking her was driving me wild. After we'd actually done it, every smile as she passed my desk, every time I got her a coffee, watching her walk around the office; it was hellish. She was still wearing the same variety of either smart business suits that showed off her curves or just-about-appropriate-for-the-office dresses with high slits and low necklines that showed off everything. I obsessed over her at my desk, snatching glances when I could – her desk was in my line of sight, sitting removed from me in it's separate office – my eyes pouring over her.nnShe'd let her hair grow and it hung down to her shoulders, framing her bone structure, her high cheekbones and strong jaw-line that tapered off to her delicate chin, preventing her face from losing it's femininity. Her eyes, a delicate shade of blue that kept them twinkling and mischievous, always topped with a permanently arched eyebrow so it seemed. Her figure. Oh, many work-hours lost contemplating her figure – it's outline against her clothes – full, curved and welcoming.nnI'd pondered all this over and over, of course; but now I had immediate context for it all. Her hair? Remembering how it felt between my fingers or draped across my stomach as she kissed me.