I secretly snicker, allowing a vicarious grin to revive my thrilled expression which I displayed the entire time Samantha was here, and had then abated along with her presence as she left for the day. I reflect back, the involuntary image of her skirt hitching provocatively up her lower thigh, the way she sunk her teeth into the plump flesh of her lip, her eyes scorching with untold desires as she swayed her crossed leg enticingly back-and-forth.
She is such a tease.
She has seemed to have provoked feelings in me that I can’t surmount or repress. One day she has been here in my presence, and I already have her body and her luring movements burned into my mind like a pyrography artist burns his images into the finest oak.
“Goodnight, Mr. Wentworth.”
“Goodnight, Chloe. See you tomorrow.”
And in half a minute less than no time, I am alone once more, behind my desk, wondering what Samantha is doing right now? I relieve myself of a galling breath and push my body back into the leather chair, mechanically bounce against the suspension.
My elbows rest comfortably on the leather-sheathed arms, my fingers locked. Although its distance seems noticeably afar, I find myself gaping at the burgundy chair which occupies the large open space in front of the desk. I rest my mouth against the pads of my thumbs.
That woman; that magnificently, alluring woman. She has me completely enthralled. I haven’t felt this alive in months. I haven’t felt this desire to move forward––to take a risk. What has she done to me?
Have I ever being so affected by a single female in such a sparse amount of time? No, I haven’t, so why her and why now? My heart is pounding incessantly against my chest, adrenaline, blood and testosterone surges unrelentingly through my veins. My cock gives into a deliciously, tempting twitch.
I close my eyes and take a sharp intake of breath, contemplating the way I surreptitiously studied the arch of her instep as her sole moulded against the angle of her black skyscraper heels. The way the light bounced from the surface of the silver mirrored heel, complimenting her pale, flawless skin. My eyes slithering slowly up her lean, toned legs as I silently valued every inch.
I have to get out of here and search for some answers––answers to why I am affected so much by her in this way. I am bewildered by the emotions that I have faced with her in my company. I have never felt this way before, well, not for a very long time anyway.
Could I trust her?
I groan, shaking my head.
Trust; is there ever such a thing?
The glow from my desk light disturbs my contemplation. 6.30 p.m., time to go home and have a well-deserved stiff drink.
The drink isn’t going to be the only stiff thing, if you keep fantasizing about Miss Alluring-Long-Legs
my subconscious mocks with wicked, glinting eyes.
From beside my right foot underneath my desk, I collect my briefcase. Pushing my body out of the moulded leather seat, I pull open the top left draw of my desk, and recover the résumé that the agency has forwarded to me. Grazing my thumb across her name, I idly imagine that it is that striking, pink lower lip of hers which is beneath my thumbs caress.
I sigh.
Samantha Kennedy…
Breaking free from my musing, I unhinge the gold clasps of my briefcase as it lays on the surface of the bureau and place the parchment on top of the additional documents that I possess. Hastily pulling at the cord of the desk lamp, my office is plunged into darkness. Only the light from the corridor beyond my door subtly illuminates a small quantity of the parameter of the darkened room––just enough to permit me safe passage without tripping over anything as I stroll to the exit.
Placing my briefcase onto the spicy red leather passenger seat, I slide into the driver’s seat and sink into the plush leather of my DB9. Throwing my head against the cool headrest, I fight the draining sensation that overpowers me, both physically, and mentally. I pull the door shut and press the ignition and head for home.
Oh, my life––this is taking forever
my subconscious exclaims angered as he inspects his Rolex, then throws his arms into the air in an over exaggerated fashion.
The drive home is
torturous
. Stopping at another set of traffic light, I lean forward, and push a silver button that is embedded within the tortoiseshell
console. The radio crackles to life before some explicit rap song resumes playing. Normally, I would switch the station immediately; I’m not a fan of this rap music. Now, the raspy, consuming, seductive sounds of Jazz, Soul, and Motown on the other hand…
Still, for some strange reason, I’m unable to bring myself to hit that button. I listen intently to the lyrics.
As the song draws to its close, I am soon left reeling as a deep sense of infuriation begins to simmer and ruthlessly attacks my body. Why am I finding
a
connection
between random matters and Samantha? It is infantile.
Hayden, you are educated in philosophy; you are perfectly aware that all of these…um, signs, if you will, are apparent because you are concentrating extensively on making the connection.
My subconscious clarifies while looking over his designer square framed glasses, his legs crossed as he sits in an avocado green wingchair, filling his notepad with details of my predicament.
Exasperated, I turn the radio off, and park my car in my usual space at the parking lot of The Paramount. I offer a sigh of relief.
Home at last
.
“Good evening, sir,” a husky voice from behind the sandy-golden, granite reception desk greets me as I stride casually across the spacious, polished, matching colored tiled floor of The Paramount lobby.
“Evening, Blake,” I answer, nodding my acknowledgement at the dark blond, thirty-something gentleman, dressed in a white linen shirt and an ash-gray tailored suit.
Strolling towards the bank of elevators, I press the call button, and patiently wait for the doors to ping open. After a beat, the doors slide open, showcasing the golden granite interior, and the floor to ceiling mirrored wall. The three spotlights in the center of the ceiling create a subtle, inviting glow.
I step inside and press the black circular button. A bright light behind the number 38 gleams against the black background of the button. The doors glide together quickly, and take me to my apartment.
As I step from the elevator, and therefore releasing myself from the relaxing motion of it, I tap down at my breast pocket to recover my keys. I finally withdraw them from my jacket after delving several times into the pocket. The motion of the additional keys and my letter H key ring jingle noisily together as I recover the correct one.
Pushing the door open and stepping inside, the darkness is instantly eradicated when I turn on the cube, chocolate leather table lamp, alongside the right of my doorway. Striding along the dark, hardwood flooring, I prop my briefcase onto the chocolate leather and beige fabric couch. The scatter cushions are plumped to perfection against the backrest. By-passing the couch, I step onto the raised platform. The floor-to-ceiling panoramic window positioned directly before me––welcoming me––as I gaze at the vista of San Francisco Bay.
I appraise the twinkling lights from both above and below, while the full moon dominates the black velvet night sky, sparkling stars scattered like sequins just waiting patiently to be admired. This is my daily ritual. No matter how trying my day has ensued, I can stand here, and just watch––revering the view, free my mind and take solace from this beautiful, enthralling vision. And I’m free.
With my hands nestled in my pants pockets, I rock gently to-and-fro, and release a wondering breath.
Miss Kennedy is down there, not a fifteen minute drive away, amongst the twinkling of street lights, amongst the sounds that is San Francisco. I wish she was here, with me, in my apartment––in my bed.
What is wrong with you, Hayden?
I flail my head to renounce the lewd contemplation before I shimmy to the shelf of my media center, and pour myself a generous helping of Southern Comfort. The cold glass lingers on my lips as I tip my head back, welcoming the burning sensation that the amber liquid leaves in its wake. Stepping off the podium, I place the crystal tumbler down onto the coffee table that sits in front of my couch, and quickly grasp the handle of my leather and gold briefcase and make my way hastily straight down the corridor to my bedroom.
After discarding the case onto the red satin runner that lies on my king-sized sleigh bed, I stand back and rub my brow.
This bed looks empty, too big for just one.
I bow my head as I attempt to overcome the void that has gradually been filling up with anger and resentment, fear and longing. Now, in its place, I’m inundated with desire and need, feelings that I haven’t experienced for what seems like an eternity. It’s very new and I am oblivious as to how to reacquaint myself with these emotions, which I had to abandon so long ago.
After one meeting, one day with her, I already know that I want her, I crave her––
badly
. I’m captivated by her. But I am damaged, so completely and rigorously damaged. Yet today, I felt alive, as though I have found a reason to keep fighting to regain my life, to fit the remaining pieces of my own individual puzzle.
But would the enormity of the amount I have been damaged taint her? Would it break her like it broke me? Would and could she look at me the same?
Aggravated by my deepening trail of thought, I make a beeline into the en-suite bathroom, hoping that a hot shower will diminish the racing thoughts of my failures, my fucked-up-ness, and mask the unearthing of my exposed nerves, that are still too raw for me to even contemplate freely.
It doesn’t take long for the bathroom to fill up with steam from the running shower. The gilded, granite titled walls and the oversized mirror of the vanity is already fogged with condensation.
Removing my clothes and discarding them to a pile at the corner of the bathroom, I pull open the glass cubicle door in its gold frame and step inside. I welcome the tingling, prickling sensation that the hot water bestows upon my body, the droplets cascade down my muscular physique, cleansing me of the tense and overwrought emotions that I have once again submitted myself to involuntarily.
There is that cursed word again,
involuntary.
I fist my hands through my wet hair, slicking it back securely.
If only Samantha was here with me now.
My subconscious shakes his head franticly at me, recognizing the trail that my lewd thoughts are hauling me down––but it is too late––Miss Kennedy is already feasting on my desires like a succubus and I relinquish all logical thought and concentrate on what my libido wants me to revel in.
My eyes flutter open. I wipe them free of the water that blurs my vision, and there she is, as clear as her piercing blue eyes––Samantha––stood before me, resting against the tile wall of the cubicle. Beads of water slide effortlessly over her naked body, her breasts, before skimming over their under curve and resuming the trail down her stomach. I envision her nipples hardening and straining with the change of temperature.
Giving way to the images in my mind, I watch and feel my hands descending leisurely from her neck down to her breasts, caressing them, kneading them. She groans, and whispers my name as she tips her head back.
I gradually become aware of my right hand tightly fisted around my erection, gripping hard and purposefully. I stroke up and down my shaft, pulling my foreskin back slowly as I savor the vivid, intense fantasy that’s dominating my mind.
My legs feel weak. I lean forward and rest my left hand against the cool tile in front of me to maintain my balance. I watch my hand constrict around my length, pulling back and exposing my swollen tip, all the while picturing Miss Kennedy’s mouth taking the place of my hand. Her full lips encasing around me, her hands navigate around my hips, sinking into the flesh of my ass, pushing me deeper into wet heat of her mouth. I contemplate the feel of the back of her throat as she savors me, inch-for-inch.
A feral groan escapes my throat as my tempo rapidly increases. My abdominals tense and I gasp, the hiss of air hitting between my teeth. I tip my head back to the torrent and surrender myself fully to the fantasy.
Twisting my hand slightly to allow the pad of my thumb to graze the underside of the crest of my erection, I come apart. I stand immobilized, shuddering as the thick, warm liquid spurts at high velocity from my tip, into my hand and down the drain with the water and the figment of my desire. I tremble internally as I finally find the release that I have craved, and held prisoner.
Breathlessly, I finish my shower, and step into the cold air.
Reaching across to the towel rack, I pull free the white Egyptian cotton towel and cloak it around my hips as the remainder of water beads trickle their way from my hair, down my chest and stomach. I stand in front of the vanity, my reflection replaced with a wall of vapor. Freeing the condensation which has formed, I stare intently at my now visible reflection. My hands rest against the white tiled worktop that houses my washbasin.
What the hell was that? Where do I even begin to figure out this enigma?
I exhale loudly, a deep anxious groan absconding from my throat. I lean into my arms, my elbows bending to accommodate my weight. The veins, muscle and tendons in my forearms flexing as I adjust my position.
I peep down at the washbasin, my lips pursed, deep in thought.
As I lift my head again, I regard the man in the mirror with a degree of insight. An appreciative smile is mirrored back at me, as I progressively begin to identify the emotion that I harbor…
Hope.
FOUR
---------------------
SAMANTHA
Two weeks. And they are the most lengthy, frustrating, annoyingly lustful weeks that I have ever endured. The thing with desire, passion and lust is it’s easy to overcome. You quench the thirst, feed the desire, the act is done, you feel satisfied and you move on. But I
cannot
quench this thirst; God, knows that I have tried. But it doesn’t matter how many feeble attempts of closing my eyes and imagining that the man my body is working against is my boss, I know that there is only one person that can feed my desire, one which could satisfy me––Hayden Wentworth.