Alone he sits at his desk. It's late...
Even for him – it is late...
11:23PM...
He sits on a conference call with the states, the pressures of the last couple of weeks etched across his face, as you wordlessly slip into his office. Tie loosened, top button undone, hair looking a little unkempt – he's not looking his best, although he certainly doesn't look bad for a man his age, at least not one who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. This deal means a lot – if the London office gets it – the whispers in the breakout room will no longer be of redundancies and cutbacks. Whoever thought teenaged girls are the worst gossips in the world, has clearly never worked in a financial services company.
Sheets of printout are sprawled out on the desk in front of him as monotone voices yammer on interminably over the speaker phone. He slowly massages his neck, barely glancing up as you walk in... at least initially. But then, there's that second look, almost imperceptible if you weren't looking for it – but you are... and it's there. He has noticed the outfit...
It is of course very inappropriate for the office... The boots might just be acceptable but not with that small skin-tight skirt, it's hemline being dangerous enough to make sitting in a lady-like manner a real challenge. If you had to pick, it's probably the most inappropriate item on the outfit for work, although – the curve hugging white blouse might be pushing it close – it really depends how visible your nipples are. They weren't a second ago but then – that was before Sir noticed.
It's not your fault of course – you aren't dressed for work – you were supposed to go out with friends. Since moving to London to pursue your career, it's been a struggle to maintain a proper social life with the pressures of work. Yet another last minute conference call meaning he has to stay – and if he stays, you stay. You made all the right noises to the girls of course – this job is a drag, 'you'd better get one hell of a Christmas bonus!' – you're careful to hide the truth. The girls are great of course but the thought of another night in a loud bar followed by a tedious club fills you with dread. Some idiot in a tight t-shirt with a dreary line in 'banter' trying his best to make you the next thing he attempts to hump like a rutting dog – is there anything less appetising? And why are these guys always so obsessed with where they shoot their mighty loads? Is somebody somewhere giving out prizes?
Of course, there's the deeper secret – the one you try to hide even from yourself – the real reason you're here – it's him, Sir. You've gone over it in your mind countless times – is it because he is older? Powerful? What is the hold he exerts over your deepest darkest desires? When you're alone, in bed – why is it him you think of? His strong hands holding your hips... His mouth urgently biting your firm pert nipples... His cock sliding into... God, admit it – anywhere it damn well pleases.
It's not like you're short of options either – a quick saunter through accounts in this outfit tomorrow morning would be all you'd need to prove that. As it is, even dressed demurely on a typical day, there is a subtle but noticeable shift in the air as you pass by the desks – as heads turn. You're a woman at her peak - as a quick check in the bathroom mirror before entering Sir's office attested. Your womanly curves, the natural wiggle as you walk, those full lips that draw so many compliments. You've never been vain but even you have to admit, not too shabby!
Of all that attention though – maddeningly little comes from the one man you want it from – hell, crave it from. Sure, there've been the occasional accidental brush against each other when moving around the desk, hugs at appropriate times of an only-ever-so-slightly inappropriate length – that shared Taxi back from Marci's leaving do – when you thought he just might – might, do something more. But no – he is professional... and your boss. A good one too – one who knows you're better than the job you have and too good to be there. Soon you'll be gone – he's made no bones about it. He has pushed you for promotion, he views you as a valuable resource to the company...
That second look as you walked in though – that was nothing to do with being a valuable resource. There was that flash – that briefest hint of animal desire – you can feel a slight blush in your cheeks and a tingle elsewhere. It'll be in your mind's eye when later tonight you crawl into bed ...
You put these thoughts from your head as you walk across the thick carpeted floor – his fourth cup of coffee in one hand and the LDR figures in the other. He looks up and you smile, indicating the file – he sighs with a resigned grin and points at a pile on the far side of the desk. There's obviously some very complicated system to what look like random piles of paper but it'd take a degree in advanced mathematics to figure it out.
You lean across to add it to the indicated pile... you daren't look but you can feel your cheeks redden, is he using this opportunity to sneak a look? To check out your body as it stretches across him? Please don't let him notice your nipples... or maybe he should...
To avoid glancing back at him or worse his crotch, you look around for something to focus on – and find the picture of his ex-wife sitting on the desk – that same smug grin she always has. God you hate that perma-grin – the kind people beam at you as you talk, while constantly looking over your shoulder for someone more important to talk to. You don't know why he hasn't taken it down, perhaps because there is nothing to put in its place? What had he been thinking... The only thing more shocking than the fact he'd married her was the fact that she'd divorced him. You'd never heard him discuss it of course, you just knew the bare details. You'd been there when the courier had arrived with the papers, seen the look in his eyes as you'd placed them on his desk. Did he love her or was it just sadness at the time wasted that you saw in those soft green eyes? That'd been 3 months ago, since then he'd thrown himself into his work to a ridiculous degree. If only he could find happiness, if only he could realise that there was so much available to him, all he had to do was ask. If only he could bring himself to take that redundant wedding band off his finger that weighted him down, with memories of a woman who didn't deserve him.
You wish the stupid bitch could see her ex-husband right now – as his eyes linger on your body as you lean over him. Perhaps when you stand back up, you'll give him that certain smile... a more lingering look... maybe... maybe this time, you'll finally cast off your reserved nature... maybe...
But...
You never get that far... maybe it's the tiredness, maybe it's her self-satisfied smile or maybe the thought of his eyes upon you... but... oh fuck... the coffee slips from your hands and crashes down to the desk... the contents of the cup drenching the papers so perfectly you couldn't have aimed it better. Every last drop soaks into something important – not least the significant portion of the scalding hot coffee that ended up in his lap...
Before an apology can slip from your lips he's lurched back in his chair... desperately patting at his scalded area. The look of horror though is reserved for when he surveys the devastation you're wrought on his carefully laid out paperwork – a mountain of preparation wiped out by your tsunami of clumsiness.
You desperately attempt to mop up the mess with the sleeve of your top – a useless act against the deluge. You go to speak but he puts his fingers to his lips – indicating the open phone with the other.
"Everything OK over there?"
"Sure" he raises his voice to calmly intone, belying the panicked look in his eyes. Quickly he pulls some tissues from his drawer and you both wordlessly set about rescuing what little can be saved, to the backing track of flat American voices yammering on and on... maybe, maybe it'll be alright...
Clearly you didn't hear her the first time, Amanda from the Detroit office, as her voices cuts through, doing little to disguise her irritation.
"Have you got those figures Karl?"
He looks panicked.
"Sure... you mean the..."
"What're we're talking about - the LDV quarterlys"
"Yep, absolutely..."
You both look around in panic... picking up and discarding one semi-legible wad of sodden paper after another...
"Well?"
"Just a second, I..."
How can one desk seem so massive now, where can they be – you've looked everywhere!!!
"Forget it Karl, we're all busy people. Nevermind, Phil can you..."
