Housing Office Heat

The housing office was where hope came to die. Plastic chairs bolted to the floor, ticket system that hadn't worked since the nineties, and the persistent smell of bureaucratic despair.

I was there about the damp. Third complaint this month, same runaround every time.

Then I got assigned to Carol.

She was everything the housing office wasn't—warm, genuine, actually listening. Mid-forties, silver streaks in her dark hair, curves packed into a sensible dress that was somehow still flattering. Reading glasses on a chain. Wedding ring noticeably absent.

"Right, let me see what we can actually do," she said, scrolling through my file. "This is ridiculous. Three complaints and nothing?"

"Story of my life."

"Not anymore." She typed something, frowned at the screen. "I'm moving you up the priority list. Someone should have come out weeks ago."

"Seriously?"

"You shouldn't have to live with mold, love. It's not right." She looked up, met my eyes. "I'll personally make sure it gets sorted."

"I could kiss you."

The words were out before I could stop them. Her eyebrows went up.

"Buy me a drink first, at least."

The drink happened that Friday. Wetherspoons, because neither of us was fancy, two glasses of wine that turned into a bottle.

"This probably counts as inappropriate," Carol said, refilling her glass. "Client relations and all that."

"Report me then."

"Maybe I will." But she was smiling. "Maybe I'll report you for being too charming for your own good."

"Is that a complaint?"

"More of an observation."

We talked for hours—about her divorce (three years ago, no regrets), my situation (single, renting, making the best of it), the state of the housing system (broken beyond repair). By closing time, we were both tipsy and neither wanted the night to end.

"My flat's a mess," she said. "But it's nearby."

"I don't mind mess."

"Good." She took my hand. "Because I'm not in the mood to clean."

Her flat was above a chemist on the high street—small, cluttered, comfortable. She barely got the door closed before she was kissing me.

"Should have done this years ago," she breathed. "Dating men my own age. Useless, the lot of them."

"Happy to restore your faith."

"Prove it."

She led me to the bedroom—fairy lights, too many pillows, a bed that clearly hadn't seen action in a while. She sat on the edge, looked up at me.

"I'm nervous. It's been a while."

"No pressure. We can just—"

"Oh, I want to." She laughed. "I'm just nervous I've forgotten how."

"Let me remind you."

I knelt in front of her, slowly unzipped her dress. She helped, shimmying out of it to reveal practical underwear that was somehow sexy on her.

"Not exactly lingerie," she apologized.

"Don't care." I kissed her stomach, her thighs, worked my way to where she needed me. "Tell me what you like."

"It's been so long I don't remember."

"Then let's find out."

I pulled her underwear aside and tasted her. She gasped, fell back on her elbows, her legs spreading wider.

"Oh God—yes—"

I took my time. She'd been neglected, and I wanted to fix that. Slow licks, teasing circles, paying attention to every response.

"Right there—don't stop—please—"

She came with a cry that surprised them both of us, shaking through it. Before she'd recovered, I was climbing up her body.

"Inside me," she said. "Please. Need to feel you."

"Condom?"

"Drawer. Been there a year, but they should still work."

They did. I rolled one on, positioned myself.

"Ready?"

"God yes."

I pushed in slowly, watching her face. Her eyes fluttered closed, her mouth opened in a silent moan.

"Okay?"

"More than okay." She pulled me down, kissed me. "Move. Please move."

I did—slow at first, then faster as she responded. She wrapped her legs around me, her hands clutching my back.

"So good—forgot how good—"

"Doing alright for someone who forgot?"

"Natural talent." She was gasping now. "Harder—please—"

I gave her harder. The bed frame hit the wall, and she laughed even as she moaned.

"Gonna—again—already—"

She came with my name on her lips, clenching around me. The feeling pushed me over—I came hard, buried deep.

We lay there after, tangled in too many pillows.

"So," she said eventually, "about that damp complaint."

"What about it?"

"Consider it sorted." She kissed me. "Personal service."

The damp got fixed that week. Carol and I kept seeing each other.

Turns out the housing office isn't so bad after all.