His hands were shaking, his face pale. "I'm afraid...er...it seems as if Ms. Lyon wasn't impressed..."
A figure emerged behind him. "Ms. Lyon is fucking fed up of incompetence, ineptitude and the total inability of any single human being on this planet to comprehend the simplest of instructions."
She stood there, hands on her hips, glaring out at the scared faces. Sandy sighed. Such a waste of fine womanhood, too.
Demetria Lyon had been blessed with a body that could make candles melt when she sashayed by. Full hips, a narrow waist, breasts that were just shy enough of perky to be sexy and legs that went for about a mile and a half - straight down.
Her hair was golden silk, her eyes green and her disposition could curdle milk at forty paces. She was one gorgeous bitch and seemed to derive most of her pleasure from living up to her namesake.
She was a lion in more ways than one. Roaring out anger came naturally to her and accounted for the unusually high percentage of staff turnover in the head office. There were rumors she hunted her lunch, killed it barehanded, and ate it raw.
Certainly she devoured junior staff members at regular intervals, spitting out their entrails into the unemployment line with scarcely a backward glance. One infraction, one overlooked detail and it was bye-bye Lyon.
Sandy had managed to hold her job for an astounding six months, by dint of ignoring most of the loud noises and doing what she was told before she was told to do it. It had been a challenge at first, but now it was turning into one hellacious headache. She might be the next one out the door if Ms. Lyon kept on the way she was going.
She sighed again. "Ms. Lyon, your four-thirty appointment is on his way up."
A perfectly curved lip lifted into a snarl. "Good thing too. He's already late." She spun on her sharp heel and disappeared back into her office, leaving Mr. Wilmer staring helplessly at Sandy.
"I thought it looked nice. Honestly I did." He waved the latest cover aimlessly around him.
"It did indeed. Don't worry about it. You know how the boss is. She insists upon perfection. It's not you, Mr. Wilmer. It's her and her visions. We all fail to meet them on a regular basis. You just gotta go with the flow."
Wilmer pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose and shook his head, sending the few sparse hairs flying around him like a tiny little halo. "I don't know how much more of this I can take. Every month, it's the same damn thing. Not right, not this, not that...I'm not a mind reader. I don't know exactly what she wants and she's so cryptic when it comes to telling us. The whole art department worked long hours on this. What the devil's wrong with it? I ask you..."
He stared once more at the gloriously bare-chested hunk gracing the glossy cover of a future issue of Luscious magazine. Soft waves rolled behind the model, lit by a sunset that could only be described as spectacular. "She says it's mushy. What the blazes is mushy about this?" He held it up in front of him for the world to see.
There was a moment of respectful silence as all the women present gazed pensively at the photo. A collective sigh followed.
"Sheeeiiitt." Doreen from accounting gave voice to the lust that flooded the room. "I gotta get me one of those." She glanced at the cover models sitting awkwardly off at the side of the room.
"I think it's time we left, guys." One stood, cheeks flushed.
"Yeah."
"I'm with you."
Sandy giggled as three delightful male asses hi-tailed it to the elevator. "You scared 'em off, Doreen."
"Chicken shits."
As one set of elevator doors closed on the chicken shits, another opened, spewing out several employees and one rather tall man Sandy didn't recognize. She found herself holding her breath as he walked toward her.
"Hello." He smiled and offered his hand.
Sandy blinked, frozen for a moment as she stared into his unusual bronze eyes. "Uh...hi." She took his hand and shook it. Then jumped a little as some kind of sizzling tingle ratcheted down her arm to her breasts. "Wow."
The man grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment. I'm Ms. Lyon's four-thirty appointment. The name is Cleese...Andrew Cleese..."
Chapter Two
Andrew was enjoying himself enormously.
Since the last full moon, he'd immersed himself in this particular world, spending long hours wandering around invisibly, scoping out the landscape, learning the tricks and mechanisms by which these people survived.
And he'd also spent many hours observing one Demetria Lyon. It had been her face in the rather garishly ornamented mirror he'd discovered on his bedside table the morning after the full moon. And her world he'd been able to enter after a bit of experimentation with teleportation spells.
The brief excursion to the Arctic circle had been chilly and unpleasant, but after he'd figured out things like latitude and longitude, he was all set. And it hadn't taken him too long to discover the whereabouts of the glorious woman the fairy had promised him.
The fact that her image in the mirror was always naked didn't hurt, since by all that was holy the woman had a body more suited to a goddess than a human mortal.
Her hair was gold, her skin creamy alabaster with a hint of rose pink in all the right places, her breasts were full and tipped with large nipples, her pussy - to Andrew's surprise - bare of hair and delicately slit, an enchantingly unusual sight to his hungry eyes.
He'd lusted right there and then, taken more than a few trips out behind the woodpile, and finally settled down to an extended period of familiarization. He was a thorough wizard most of the time, preferring to do his "due diligence" before plunging in to new adventures. He'd been chided a time or two in Wizard school for his plodding and somewhat pedantic approach, but this time he was convinced it would pay off.
No poofing into Demetria's living room complete with robes, hat and gnarled staff. Nope. That wouldn't work, not in the current environment of security systems and alarms. Magic, it seemed, was seriously neglected in her world. Which was, in Andrew's opinion, a fucking shame.
He'd quickly absorbed the overwhelming desire for gold - or at least a seven-figure bank account - a prime directive in this particular environment. It had been the work of minutes to establish his own nest-egg, although a minor incident involving something called the "IRS" had stymied him for a day or two.
Finally realizing those initials stood for the Internal Revenue Service, not Infernally Ridiculous Snoopers, he'd tweaked a few computer files and now found himself to be on everybody's nice-and-friendly list. A good thing, since he'd discovered one mantra of this civilization to be "never fuck with the IRS".
The more he observed, the more he fancied this world. They didn't force-feed anybody vegetables, which was a huge point in their favor. Also, his mother wasn't there, dear woman though she was. Another check mark in the pro column.
Of course, the lack of belief in magic and wizardry was a con - a big one. Plus the continual drive to earn more, spend more and move on was a bit unsettling. Didn't these people ever sit back and appreciate the simple things? A sunset? A butterfly?
He'd smiled. He'd teach Demetria a thing or two about appreciating magic. Absently he'd conjured up a butterfly, only to duck as he realized he'd over-amped his spell and something the size of a respectable jet airplane was now fluttering around his bedroom.
Still, the damage was soon repaired, the wing-dust whisked away by his vacuum incantation and all returned to normal. Or as normal as it could be when a very naked Demetria stared constantly at him from what he now came to regard as his own private desktop wallpaper.
Yes, Andrew had discovered technology - and if it wasn't exactly love at first sight, it was certainly a very warm and affectionate relationship. The magic, if there was any in this world, seemed to lie in the realms of cyber-space. People didn't need to travel to markets on weekends for supplies or clothing.
They could sit at their computer-thingies and do so much in the way of living without ever lifting their asses off their chairs. Which went a lo
ng way toward explaining the size of said asses, but that - in Andrew's opinion - was neither here nor there.
He was focused on Demetria. The fairy had indeed produced a miracle woman for him, one whose image had immediately branded itself on his cerebellum then crawled down his cervical vertebrae, trotted past his ribcage and curled up in his heart. Left ventricle, most probably.
The residual effects had traveled further south, sending his cock into an immediate and painful erection that had the nasty habit of returning at inappropriate moments. However, a short period of silent contemplation on the topic of okra quickly sent it back to its more flaccid state.
Andrew's surveillance had revealed more about Demetria than her shaved pussy, fascinating though that was. Sadly, the more he watched her, the more he realized one important detail the fairy had neglected to mention.
His ideal woman was what could only be described as a bitch on wheels.
Pleased with his contemporary analogy, he continued to watch her, noting the frequent violent temper tantrums, the exacting and demanding nature that produced them and the total lack of anything resembling sensitivity. She was driven to succeed and that drive overrode anything approaching femininity, charm or delicacy of nature.
Demetria knew where she was going and the Goddess help anyone who stood in her way. She hired and fired her workers with unfailing regularity, secure in the knowledge that she was right and that in her case, Right made Might.
It took no time at all for Andrew to arrive at the same conclusion her secretary would voice in the not too distant future.
Demetria Lyon needed a good solid fucking. She had the proverbial broomstick so far up her ass he was surprised it wasn't sticking out the top of her head and sporting a flag. She lived for her work, taking it home with her at night to a sterile residence that seemed designed to alleviate any need for interaction with her fellow mortals.
She had few phone calls after hours, spent evenings poring over her laptop and her paperwork, indulged occasionally in one glass of what looked like white wine and ate sparingly.
Her routine was rigid, inflexible and involved an hour at the gym every morning except Sundays. Then it was on to the office, promptly at eight am, a quick lunch at noon and so on. How the hell she could survive such a stiflingly horrible life, Andrew had no idea.
She needed him. She needed magic. And she needed that broomstick removed from her ass and replaced with something else.
Well, okay. Maybe not anal sex - not for a while at any rate. That was a fairy indulgence he hadn't quite mastered.
Shit. Andrew had had to spend a few moments thinking about okra after that little notion spread through his brain. But aside from the distraction provided by the irritatingly regular erections, Andrew managed to glean vast amounts of information from his new toy - his portal into Demetria's world.
And, if all went according to plan, his portal into Demetria herself.
It had been a solid few weeks worth of work, but now he considered himself ready. His "new" identity was in place - wealthy businessman - his pied à terre ready for occupancy - why shouldn't a wizard have a nice penthouse? - and his appointment confirmed for late one afternoon at the offices of Lyon Publishing.
It was time to meet Demetria face to face. Unfortunately, she'd be clothed at the time. But, Andrew grinned to himself, that state of affairs wouldn't last long. He'd conjured up his own wardrobe, something more suitable for this new environment than the dark robes with the moons all over them.
Even here, they were a bit cheesy, but his mother had sewn them for him. What could a son do but wear them?
He'd told her he was off a-wizarding, and intended to find himself a bride. Her smile of delight was answer enough and he managed to "lose" the bag of dried okra she'd insisted he take with him. He didn't think dried okra went along with his image of filthy rich entrepreneur. Nor did the bag do a damn thing for the fit of his silk suit, although to be honest the suit itself was a bit restrictive, especially around the crotch.
He found he preferred his robes, where "things" could dangle freely in the breeze. He compromised by dismissing the notion of briefs, or other constrictive garments, opting to let the fine silk of his pants brush against his balls. It was a sensation that wasn't too distasteful and he managed to ignore it most of the time.
In fact it heightened his awareness at this particular moment as Ms. Lyon's secretary buzzed her intercom and informed her boss that Andrew had arrived. The fact that she did so without taking her eyes off Andrew wasn't lost on him.
He smiled politely, noting the rather glassy stare she was giving him. There was a lot of lip licking going on too. Good. He'd got the sex-appeal thing right, apparently. Andrew fervently hoped he'd have the same effect on his target.
He was about to find out.
"You can go on in, Mr. Cleese." The woman licked her lips once more. "And...er...good luck."
"I'm sure I won't need it, Miss..." he glanced at her nameplate. "Miss Draper."
"It's Mrs." She looked regretful. "Sorry. Really. You have no idea how sorry I am at this moment."
Andrew grinned. "Your husband is a lucky man."
She blinked back at him. "Who?"
Andrew's smile widened and he nodded at the woman as he turned towards Demetria's office. "You might want to clear her calendar for the rest of today. I think she's going to be out of the office for a while."
He opened the office door, not staying around to hear the choking gasp from Mrs. Draper's throat or see the astonishment on her face.
He knew who awaited him inside.
His fated mate.
*~*~*~*
Demetria was irritated beyond words.
Once again, her idiot staff hadn't measured up to the high criteria she'd set for them, something she was trying to get used to, but was failing dismally. As did they, on a regular basis.
Luscious magazine was her baby and she didn't think it too severe to demand the best for it. If those pea-brained morons couldn't produce it, she'd keep hiring new people until she found somebody who could.
And now she had to deal with some asshole financier who was probably going to stroll in like he owned the place, do his best to impress her with his limited financial knowledge and insult her by making an offer for Luscious that would barely cover the rent on the building.
She'd had them before, and - like any successful businesswoman - knew she'd have them again. Regularly. And they always gave her heartburn. Mostly because the men, arriving with checkbooks and statistics, never seemed to be able to get past her tits.
Just once, she'd like some jerk to grasp the fact there was a brain about a foot and a half or so above her cleavage. They were all spiffed up in the "businessman-rich" gear, reeking of expensive cologne, wearing watches that seemed better suited to Cannes than a formal meeting, and generally managing to piss her off within thirty seconds of opening their mouths.
And worst of all? They seriously undervalued Luscious. Demetria knew to the penny how much it was worth from a market point of view. The value to her, of course...well, that was incalculable.
Luscious was her life, her baby. There wasn't enough money on the face of the planet to drag her away from it or make her even consider for two seconds the notion of parting with it.
So it was with a sigh of resignation that she stood as her office door opened, and prepared herself to deal with yet another in a long string of daily annoyances. It was part and parcel of what she did - who she was.
"Ms. Lyon."
Demetria, for the first time she could remember, was pretty close to dumbstruck. For a woman who dealt with cover models on a regular basis, this was way out of the ordinary.
It wasn't that he was incredibly handsome - although he was - it was the something swirling around him that made her senses swim for a second or two.
Unusual golden eyes were smiling at her from beneath perfectly chiseled brows. His hair was a tad on the longish side, dark and silky-looking. He wa
s taller than she was, even in her heels, something that made her feel unusually feminine all of a sudden.
And shit, he smelled...wonderful.
She couldn't help her nostrils flaring as she got a whiff of his scent - something spicy and masculine, yet very delicate. She couldn't put a name to it but it seeped into her lungs as she sucked in a breath and extended her hand.
Which, to her disgust, trembled a little. "Good afternoon. You must be Mr. Cleese?"
He took her hand in his and raised it elegantly to his lips, dropping the lightest of kisses on her knuckles. "I must be."
To Demetria's surprise, a tiny zap of something that felt like static electricity passed from his skin to hers, then burrowed down into an area concealed by a very expensive pair of silk panties. This couldn't be happening.
Not to her.
"I must be." He repeated the words and stared at her hand almost as if he, too, had felt the tingle. "Whaddya know? The fairy was right."
Oh swell. A lunatic.
Carefully, Demetria withdrew her fingers from his grasp, wondering how she could manage to get some security on standby without seeming rude. "Yes, well, they probably are, aren't they? Fairies, I mean." She took a few steps backward finding a measure of relief by putting her solid desk firmly between her and this nutcase.
A nice looking and very attractive nutcase, but a nutcase all the same.
"So, Mr. Cleese." Demetria scurried mentally back into the haven of business. "You're here to discuss some financial matters, I understand."
Sitting down in her chair and shifting papers, Demetria forced herself to not notice his body or the way his pants hugged his hips. Nor was she going to pay any attention at all to the slight bulge that distended them, even if it was right about eye level now that she'd taken her seat.
Nope. She wasn't a woman to look at those sorts of things.
Absolutely not.
Oh well, maybe just this once...
Andrew Cleese and Ms Lyon Page 2
