by Tess Stimson
Oh Christ. Oh bloody Christ. I am in deep, deep trouble.
She’s waiting at the entrance to the restaurant, her back toward me as she talks to the maître d’. Her statuesque frame is sheathed in a soft, black wool dress that manages simultaneously to skim and to cling to every voluptuous contour. It ends demurely enough at the knee; but she is wearing black seamed stockings and a pair of scarlet high heels that either ruin the outfit or set it off beautifully. I suspect you need to be a woman to tell.
I realize I am gaping, and close my mouth. Jamming my files across my poker-hard erection, I take a deep breath and go over to her. This is business. Just business—
Oh, Jesus.
She turns at my approach and smiles. “Great. You got my message.”
A deep V of honeyed skin plunges to a generously displayed cleavage. Between her breasts, a silver heart-shaped pendant nestles. I wonder if it is warm from her skin, or perhaps she has only just put it on, it’s still cool to the touch.
My cock bucks and for the first time since I was fifteen, I wonder if I’m actually going to come in my pants.
“—I said, is a booth all right with you, Nick?”
I nod dumbly. The waiter escorts us to our table, and for a few moments we fuss with napkins and menus and breadsticks. I clear a space on the tablecloth for my files, building a manila rampart between us. It’s the only way I can tear my eyes from her breasts.
A silence descends. Awkwardly I clear my throat, squaring the heap of the files in front of me with military precision. “So—ah—are you going out somewhere later?”
She gives me an odd look. “No, why?”
Girls are different these days, of course: They dress for themselves. The appreciative physical response they elicit from hapless males is just so much collateral damage.
She snaps a breadstick in two, and puts it to her mouth. Instantly I picture those full pink lips wrapped around my throbbing cock. Grimly I cross my legs and recite my eight times tables.
A tiny crumb falls into her cleavage, and negligently she licks her forefinger and dusts between her breasts to retrieve it. Six eights are forty-eight—
“So, have we heard anything back from the other side?” she asks, glancing up.
“Nothing official,” I say, gratefully seizing the conversational lifeline. “But our barrister, Roger, happened to be in Court on Friday on another case opposite Sandra Reizen, who’s representing the wife in our case tomorrow. Sandra couldn’t comment directly, of course, but she gave Roger the distinct impression she’s going to push the wife to settle out of Court.”
“Interesting. You think the wife will agree?”
“It’s certainly possible—”
We spend the next thirty minutes discussing the case; safe on neutral legal territory and with a swift couple of Scotches soon under my belt, I finally allow myself to relax a notch or two. There’s no doubting the alarming physical effect this woman has on me, but she’s all business, brisk and efficient, and I realize with relief that however lurid my fantasies may be, they are just that: fantasies. Unreciprocated schoolboy crushes are hardly a threat to anyone’s marriage.
She scans the wine list and orders a decent but inexpensive bottle with dinner; I am impressed by both her savoir-faire and her taste. Mal always defers to me over wine. I’m not entirely sure I’d appreciate a woman taking control like this on a permanent basis, but it is certainly an interesting novelty.
During the meal—lamb cutlets for me, fillet of sea bass for her—our conversation broadens to encompass the legal profession in general, and our firm in particular; she permits herself an expression of amused tolerance when Fisher and David are mentioned, but is otherwise commendably discreet.
In fact, I appear to be the one doing all the talking, but it’s a pleasant change to have such an appreciative audience. Almost hanging on your every word. Especially when the audience in question is so very young. And attractive.
Sara barely touches her meal, which surprises me; she doesn’t look like a picky eater. I prefer a woman who tucks into her food; it shows enthusiasm for life.
“Is everything all right?” I ask. “We can order something else if it doesn’t pass muster—”
“No, no, it’s fine. I’m just not that hungry. Too many breadsticks, probably.” She leans back and smiles—to dazzling effect—as a waiter tops up our glasses. “Tell me, Nick, how long have you been with Fisher’s?”
“Good God. Let me see. I joined just before my thirtieth birthday, so that’s thirteen—no, it’ll be fourteen years this winter.”
She regards me for a moment, her clear gray eyes considering. “I’d only have put you in your mid-thirties now, tops. Although I suppose if I sat and worked it out, you’d have to be older to have gained such a reputation.”
“Reputation?”
“Look, you were the main reason I applied to the firm,” she says frankly. “I kept hearing your name mentioned around, and of course you have acted in some landmark cases. I know it’s probably not the thing to say, but I couldn’t think of a better training than working with you.”
I feel ridiculously flattered. “That’s terribly sweet of you, but—”
“Sweet has nothing to do with it, Nick. It’s the truth.”
No one has ever called me Nick before. Even at school, I was always Nicholas. I think I rather like the diminutive; it sounds younger, a little less dull and middle-aged.
She pushes her untouched plate away and leans earnestly toward me. Thank God for the files between us, or I’d have a view straight down her cleavage to her navel.
“The Hopewell case changed divorce law in this country forever,” she says. “No wife had ever been awarded a third of her husband’s future earnings until that ruling. Did you have any idea going into it that you were about to set such a significant precedent?”
“Actually, that was a very interesting case for several reasons, very shrewd of you to bring it up—”
A waiter interrupts to ask if we want coffee.
“I’d love some,” Sara says. “Let’s have it in the bar, Nick, chillax a bit. And maybe a cognac?”
Chillax? Of course: chill out and relax. Christ, she speaks a different language.
“Nick?”
I’ve had more than enough to drink already, and I should go back to my room to reread my case notes and get some sleep.
But I find myself following Sara’s swaying hips—five eights are forty—to a couple of pseudodistressed leather sofas at right angles to each other in a corner of the dim bar next door. I dump the legal files on a side table as Sara kicks off her fuck-me red heels and curls her feet beneath her. She props her chin on her hand and leans on the arm of her sofa, accidentally presenting me with an eye-popping view of her breasts in their lacy black bra. I swear I can actually see the dark pink tint of her nipples—
“The Hopewell case,” she prompts.
Once again, her professionalism saves me. I shift in my chair and mentally conjugate Latin verbs, multiplication having worn out its welcome.
Her silver gaze is interested as I delineate the details of the complex case; it really is a pleasure to have such an in-depth discussion about work with someone who really understands and is fascinated, rather than bored, by the minutiae. I can’t blame Mal for losing interest beyond the headline facts of my cases; she’s always happy to listen when I talk shop, but clearly only a fellow lawyer can truly appreciate the technical detail. In parallel, I adore Mal’s spring pea soup, of course, happy to lap it up; but the genesis of the homemade chicken stock that constitutes its culinary base isn’t necessarily the most fascinating of conversations.
“Did you always want to work in divorce law?” Sara asks as a companionable silence finally falls between us.
I watch her roll the cognac glass between her palms, mesmerized by the sensuous movement of her long hands. The amber liquid, refracted through the crystal, casts gold darts across her face that bring out the tawny glints in her
cropped blond hair.
“Pretty much. I toyed with corporate and tax law for a brief moment—”
“I know.” She laughs a laugh I can feel in my trouser pockets. “Don’t we all?”
I smile with her. Despite the excruciating sexual tension—I have the worst case of blue balls—I feel surprisingly warm and mellow: due in no small part, I realize, to the alcohol I’ve consumed; but due, also, to her relaxing and attentive company. I realize that she has cleverly deferred to me and allowed me to ramble on at length all evening—I’m not a total innocent—but that deference itself is rather flattering. And she really is extremely easy to talk to. As well as being exceptionally easy on the eye.
I loosen my tie and suspenders, sinking back into the comfortable sofa with a contented sigh.
“There have been times I’ve wished I’d sold out and taken the corporate shilling,” I admit, “usually around the same time the next set of school fees fall due.”
“It’s cool you didn’t, or I’d never have got to work with you.”
“Well, that’s very kind, but—”
“I told you, Nick,” she says, lightly brushing my forearm, “you were the reason I joined the firm.”
Somehow, her hand lingers. I should pull gently away. I should thank her now for a pleasant evening, pick up my files, and go upstairs. Alone.
I don’t move.
Seconds pass. I’m acutely aware of her touch on my arm, of the fact that only a few millimeters of cotton separate my skin from hers. The mellow feeling of just a few moments ago is a distant memory. My cock is as hard as rock.
I’m overwhelmed by the urge to pull this woman—so very different from my wife—into my arms, crush those shiny, pliable pink lips beneath mine, to bury my face in those full breasts and plunge myself into the warm wet core of her. I want to lose myself in her, to get hot and dirty with her; I want to do things to her I’m too ashamed even to put into words.
Her gray eyes meet mine, and I see permission in them.
“So, Nick,” she says, very softly, and her voice is as intimate as the rustle of sheets, “would you like to come upstairs for a nightcap?”
5
Sara
The words throb in the air between us. Come on, Nick, I will him silently. Come on, say yes, say yes, you know you want to.
Those dish-water bedroom eyes of his are clearly picturing me spread-eagled naked on a four-poster bed and covered with bloodred rose petals à la Mena Suvari, but there seem to be roadblocks on the information superhighway between his brain and vocal cords. God, Nick, how difficult is it? Short of lying down and sprinkling myself with parsley garnish, could I be offering sex on a plate any more obviously?
If I have to hold this relaxed, inviting smile much longer I’m going to get lockjaw. Shit, I can’t believe how much I want him to say yes.
I touch my tongue lightly to dry lips and don’t miss the responsive judder in his pin-striped trousers. I don’t know if the public-school poker up his arse is doing something to his prostate, but this uptight, repressed, missionary-position Englishman also happens to be the most sexual man I’ve ever met. He just doesn’t realize it yet.
And fuck, do I want to be the one to show him.
Naturally Amy thinks it’s hysterical that I’ve got the hots for my married boss. After all the grief I’ve given her over her affair with Terry, I suppose I can’t blame her. The difference is, I know what I’m doing, and more importantly, how this will end, even now, before it’s begun. Especially before it’s begun. You borrow the other little girl’s toy for a while until you get bored playing with it and then you give it back. No keepsies in this game.
I’m only going to borrow him, I tell the tiny voice needling my conscience. No one’s going to get hurt. No one’s even going to know.
I lean forward to pick up my bag, treating Nick to another tempting glimpse of my tits, and throw him an amused, cool look: Coming? I daren’t touch him again, much as I’m longing to. One crass move and he’ll run for the hills.
My stomach is fizzing with nerves and excitement. The twanging in my damp knickers is vibrating all the way to my toes. Say yes say yes say yes.
Let me tell you, if I didn’t fancy the pants off this man, I’d never be going to this much trouble. It was funny at first, the way he kept shooting out of a room every time I entered it, or walking up four flights of stairs if I got into the lift—no wonder he’s lost weight. But in the last couple of weeks, it’s stopped being so amusing. I really like Nick. I want him to like me. How is he ever going to do that if he never sticks around long enough to hear the second syllable of my “Hello”?
I’ve got to say, this is all messing with my head a bit. I’ve never had a man get under my skin like this; I’m not sure I like it. I just wish to God I knew what it is about Nick that’s clicking my mouse.
Professionally, he’s confident, surefooted; arrogant, even. I’ve seen him wring concessions from other lawyers that make our clients want to cast his image in gold—and after Nick’s finished with their exes, they can afford to. What’s more, he knows how good he is, which is so erotic. When he’s in full flow, tearing the opposition a new arsehole, I almost feel scared of him myself. Certainly in awe. A brilliant older man at the height of his power, secure and certain of himself—yep, knicker-wetting, no doubt about it.
Then there’s the other Nick, so frigging hopeless with women, acting as if he wouldn’t begin to know his way around a bedroom; blushing, even.
And of course he’s totally, but totally, off limits. Married, kids, way older than me, and my boss to boot.
Oh, this is so not a good combination. And it so is.
I could’ve kissed that lech Fisher when he gave me this Manchester gig, except I’d never prise him off me again. Finally, the chance to scratch the itch that is Nick. So I pulled out all the stops for this evening. The Donna Karan dress set me back a month’s salary—shit, sweet Nick, no, I’m not “going out” anywhere afterward—but way worth it. I borrowed the scarlet Jimmy Choos from Amy—two sizes too small, but this is the twenty-first century: Ugly sisters with big feet get to go to the ball too, or we’ll sue. Between them, the dress and shoes did most of the work—with a little help from my Wonderbra—but Nick’s so bloody clueless, he couldn’t flirt to save his tightly clenched arse. Which meant I’ve had to do it all this evening: draw him out, get him to talk about himself, guide us back onto safe conversational territory whenever he got nervous—and then cut the ground out from under him with the tried-but-true crumbs-down-the-cleavage trick. (About the only food I actually ate tonight. I’m bloody starving: I didn’t want to eat too much and put him off. Men hate women with an appetite.)
OK, it’s all antifeminist crap straight from The Rules; but then let’s face it, so are men. I can impress him later with my sparkling intellect and flair for case law. The way to a man’s heart is straight through his ego via his dick: which is what this evening has been all about.
The question is: Have I pulled it off?
Only one way to find out. Since he now seems to have lost the power of speech altogether, I stand up, throwing down the bedroom gauntlet with a final flourish.
Do something, Nick. I’m out on a limb here, and it’s bloody windy—
Alleluia, he stands up with me. “I think,” he says hesitantly, “I think—”
The phone in his pocket rings.
Oh, shit. Not his wife, please, not now. Not when I’m this close.
“Good evening, George—no, absolutely not, not too late at all.” Nick mouths Wainwright at me, and I breathe again. Our client. It’s nearly midnight, but you can’t blame the man for being nervous; his whole future is on the line tomorrow. “How can I help? Of course, fire away—”
It’s only the usual last-minute panic-and-reassurance Q&A; but ten minutes later, as Nick snaps shut his phone, I suddenly realize from the rigid set of his shoulders and the shutters screening those muddy eyes that I’ve lost him. It’s more than the
moment having passed. He’s just had a brief encounter with the Ghost of Divorce Future—all custody battles, maintenance checks, bedsits, and Ramen Noodles—and it’s terrified him shitless. No doubt he sees that phone call as a Nick-of-time reminder of all he has to lose. Fuck, fuck, and double fuck.
Or rather, not.
So, isn’t this lovely. A happy family Christmas with Ma and Pa, a mixed-nuts selection of uncles, aunts, and cousins, various freeloading friends and neighbors and—I’ve stepped into Bridget Jones hell—their “eligible” collective offspring; not forgetting, of course, the vicar. Who is wearing a paisley Laura Ashley smock, a fashion crime rendered only slightly less shocking by the fact that she is at least a woman. Or so we are given to understand. It’s a little hard to tell.
All I need now is for Colin Firth to turn up wearing a hand-knitted sweater featuring Christmas trees and robins.
Actually, that is all I need. That, and a right good—
“Sara, love, there you are! It’s all right, Muriel, I’ve found her, she’s by the sausage rolls. Did you drop something, dear? Almost didn’t see you there behind the sofa. No? Well, out you come then.”
“Pearl, sorry, no, actually I was just on my way to the—”
“That’s Auntie Pearl to you, Little Miss All-Grown-Up!”
Great-Auntie, if we’re going to be picky.
I smile weakly. “Sorry, I—”
I’m enveloped in a hug reeking of eau-de-mothball and menopause. “Not too old to give your auntie a kiss at least, I hope? That’s a good girl. Oh, dear, your hair really is very short, isn’t it, lovey? You look like a boy. Your mum did warn me. Never mind, it’ll grow back. Now, then, stop skulking in a corner and come and say hello to everyone. No need to be shy.”
Actually, having to say hello to everyone is precisely why I’m skulking in a corner, and trust me, shyness has never been the problem. I cut my teeth on the boys in this room, and from the way most of them are either (a) glaring at or (b) studiously avoiding me, I’d guess they’re still nursing the bite marks.
