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I stood, crossed the sauna in three steps and sat down on the bench right beside her, our thighs sticking together.
“Draw,” I said.
Kat turned her head. Her face was inches from mine, wet, flushed and a lot softer than I’d ever seen it.
“A draw,” she said slowly, “means nobody’s winning.”
“It does.”
“So what do we do with our hands?”
I didn’t answer. I put one hand on her jaw and kissed her.
It was nothing like I’d imagined, and I had imagined it, God help me, more than once in a meeting. Her mouth was hot and salt and unexpectedly gentle. Then her hand fisted in my hair and it was not gentle at all. She hauled me across her lap, my knees either side of her thighs, my bare chest crushed to hers, and kissed me like she was trying to drink me. My towel was long gone. I felt her fingers on the backs of my thighs, the swallows on her arm flexing as she gripped my arse.
“I’ve been wanting to do this,” she said into my throat, “since the Hargreaves pitch.”
“You absolute bitch,” I gasped, and kissed her again.
Outside the cedar door, voices. Laughter. Two people from Accounts, arguing about whether the sauna was too hot to go in. The little window in the door had steamed up, but not much.
Kat’s hand was between my legs. She didn’t stop.