Fix E-Book

Lily Temperley

• Herausgeber: Clink Street Publishing
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 421

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

What's love got to do with it? Patrick Harrington is handsome, wealthy and successful. He is also a high-functioning addict that craves his next fix. His vices of choice are money and women: taking risks at work and pursuing multiple sexual conquests. Determined to get what he wants, as he always does, Harrington fixates on Alexandra Fisher - the latest pretty young thing in his office.

Leseprobe

i

Fix

Sex, Lies & Banking

Lily Temperley

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For P Rabbitiv

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‘You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them they should’ve behaved better.’

 

Anne Lamottviii

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Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my sister and my first editor. I owe you a huge debt of gratitude. My Mum and my Dad. My best friend in the world to whom I owe much. My friend and ‘brother’ who is always there for advice and guidance. Likewise my Zen friend in Northern Ireland.

To those I have mentioned in this first book if only by name or trait as a means to show that you’ve helped me along the way and I appreciate it. Susie, Elle Mas, Kirby, Finkster, JME, TMM, and Josephina.

Very special thanks to my hairdresser and his husband – the best confidantes a girl could wish for. To Angela, Angie, Ms Eccles-S, Penny, Gerald, Izza, Tess, Krys and Lise thanks for believing I could write a book.

To the other angels in my life, Snezha, Jean, Sara and Bern who taught me so much about life.

And to the people who helped me get this to print, Daniel, Stephanie, Becky, Lucy, Gareth and Chris.

And finally, to the people who use words in ways that inspire me and make me laugh, Eva, Katherine J, MM, JJ, 1D, Alec, Tina, Charlie and Seth.

Thank you.vi

1

 

 

I stare at the brown paper envelope and feel sick to my stomach. It contains large colour photographs, slightly blurred and grainy but crystal clear in what they portray. Me, naked in a variety of different sexual positions with a number of different women. Their faces are indistinguishable but I know who they are and what they are. Hookers. Other pictures show me entering and leaving establishments that a man in my position shouldn’t be associated with. Too late for that.

The sender has not included a note. Scrawly handwriting across the envelope refers to the contents as ‘The Harrington Sexual Misdeeds Dossier’. I am clueless as to the intention of the sender. They have not asked for money. Or anything else, for that matter. Is it a veiled threat to ruin my reputation, and along with it, my dreams of ever becoming Caldwell Bank’s next CEO?

I run my hands through my hair and wonder, which one of the countless women I have slept with could possibly be behind this? I found the envelope wedged into the mail slot of my front door. It was hand delivered to my house. Could it be a work associate? I know I have burned my fair share of bridges and stepped on plenty of toes in my time. Who hates me enough to go to these lengths to do this to me?

Contents

 Title PageDedicationEpigraphAcknowledgments AlexandraHarringtonAlexandraHarringtonAlexandraHarringtonAlexandraHarringtonAlexandraHarringtonAlexandraHarringtonAlexandraHarringtonAlexandraHarringtonAlexandraHarringtonAlexandraHarringtonAlexandraHarringtonPatrickFisherCopyright

2

Alexandra

It started out as a normal day. I think to myself, I will be spending my precious leisure time working. Again.

I have made my way into the offices of Caldwell Bank, a gleaming glass tower that stands amongst other similar structures in the mini-city that is Canary Wharf in London’s Docklands. Usually a hive of activity during the week, the Wharf has a distinctly eerie feel at the weekend when, other than security, there is seldom a soul around.

The Caldwell building is lavish and impressive, with a marble floored lobby decorated with expensive sculptures, Italian leather sofas and beautiful exotic flowers in oversized glass vases. In the earlier days of working for the company, I used to walk in and get a thrill from the ambience of success. Now, I have to remind myself to appreciate the architectural beauty of the building and all the amenities the firm provides. Food is available to order around the clock, sleeping pods can be booked for a nap and a variety of services are housed on various floors of the building, from coffee bars to a hairdresser and a store, which sells toiletries, and work attire. It is set up in such a way 3that you have no reason to leave. They don’t go as far as removing the door handles.

As I move through the lobby, the decadence on display causes me to have an unpleasant physical reaction in the pit of my stomach. The office represents shackles to me on so many levels. I sigh; work makes me feel as trapped as home does at present.

I glance at my reflection in the lift mirrors and acknowledge to myself that I haven’t tried very hard with my appearance today. It is February in London. Days are typified by brooding weather, rolling dark clouds in angry skies, perpetual drizzle and icy winds that bite at your lips and make your eyes water. Today is no exception, it is dank, cold and grey, and my mood reflects this. My honey-coloured hair looks dull, a bit lacklustre and is, as ever, unruly. My skin is a little ruddy.

Not wanting to see myself, I close my eyes and listen to the mechanics of the elevator as it climbs to the forty-second floor, home to the Caldwell Executive Team. I step out of the lift and round the corner heading towards my desk. I feel the dull ache behind my eyes as they adjust to the lights and inwardly curse myself for drinking so much the night before.

The lights. They are on. I know from my early weekday starts and often being the first person to arrive onto level forty-two that it takes someone moving onto the floor to activate the motion sensors that trigger the lights turning on overhead as you walk.

It is a Sunday and I was expecting the office to be empty. My plan, to go in and get a head start on the coming week’s pile of work, now seems like a bad idea. The excess of the previous night hangs over me. The fruity, peachy smell of a Bellini still too recent for me to have even considered having breakfast this morning.

I stop short and take a deep breath. I am in no state to be making small talk and being on the Executive floor of one of Britain’s largest companies means that whilst I am unsure of whom it is I will run into, I am fairly certain it will be someone important. This is unlikely to be a pleasant encounter for me, particularly given the state I am in. I had dressed in haste this morning. I feel a sense of foreboding as I glance down at my snug black v-neck, showing a little more cleavage than I would ordinarily, when in my right mind, consider for this environment. I am in my 4ever-comfortable much worn ripped Diesel jeans. Hurriedly, I had pulled on my old faithful scuffed knee-high boots as I headed out the door of my flat. I fervently hope that whoever is on the floor is not one of the Executives.

I gingerly make my way past the kitchen door and the coat cupboards and stop behind a row of filing cabinets. Without revealing myself I peer around the corner and across the open plan desks. The interior of the building is the height of contemporary design. Simplicity, subtle sophistication, texture and clean lines. The Executive Suite is no exception. It is sleek and luxurious with thick carpets, bold colour blocks on the walls, high ceilings, and geometric shapes in wall art and sculpture thoughtfully positioned around the floor. The external windows are bare, floor to ceiling, maximising natural light and the stunning views over Canary Wharf and beyond.

I hear the faint strains of pop music coming from one of the offices and as my eyes travel towards its source, my heart skips a beat as I realise who it is that has also decided to come into work today.

I stay where I am and squint. This only serves to intensify my ever-present hangover. I am tempted to spin on my heel and leave but I am captivated. He is sitting in his glass office, oblivious to the fact that I am watching him. He is dressed in faded jeans and a casual checked shirt, rolled up to his elbows. This is a stark contrast to the exquisitely tailored Savile Row suits, Hermes ties and hand-made Italian shoes I am used to seeing him in. He is leaning back in his chair holding papers in front of him. It looks like he is reading something important and he is deep in thought. But I am not that interested in what he is doing. I am delighted to have this opportunity to study him and realise that I am barely breathing and my heart is hammering a tattoo in my chest.

My senses are on high alert and the music floats across the open space. I am momentarily mesmerised, my hangover forgotten. Patrick Harrington is quite possibly the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Tall, with sandy brown hair that flops mischievously into his eyes. Eyes of steely blue, as piercing as they are enticing. He is beguiling. Everything about him, from his good looks to his physical presence, screams power and authority. This is a man who commands attention. And to top it all off, there is his 5accent. The soft, sexy lilt of a man who has lived in several countries, softening the broad edged sounds of his Irish background.

I had known whom Patrick Harrington was for as long as I had been with the firm. Everyone knew who he was. He had recently been promoted into a top job, Head of Investment Banking, and joined the elite Executive ranks of Caldwell Bank to help run the company. The press release was still vivid in my memory, as much for the news it brought as the handsome photograph of Patrick Harrington alongside the editorial.

“Caldwell Banking plc are pleased to announce the appointment of Patrick Harrington to Head of Investment Banking and Capital Markets. Patrick will join the Caldwell Executive Team and will report directly to CEO, Bradford T. Stone. Previously, Mr. Harrington was a Senior Managing Director, Head of Caldwell’s Global Markets businesses. Before this post, Mr Harrington was a specialist in Derivatives Products, responsible for the Bank’s European business. Mr. Harrington joined Caldwell Bank’s Capital Markets operations as a graduate. Mr. Harrington holds a bachelor’s degree in Biochemistry from St Peters College Oxford and a MBA from the Wharton School, University of Pennsylvania.”

Almost six months before today, I had been in the Bank’s Park Lane New York offices with my boss, ahead of an Executive Team meeting that both she and Patrick had flown in to attend. Exuding charisma and with charm that he was legendary for, he had stopped by the desk I was occupying and introduced himself. Not that it was necessary, as I had followed his career long before the press release. I cringe a little as I think about how nervous and girlish I was that day, giggling and stammering while trying to string a sentence together under the intensity of his attention. I was inhaling the very scent of him; my senses were scintillated with hints of sandalwood and bergamot. He smelled masculine and clean.

Every day since then I had longed for further encounters with the illustrious Patrick Harrington. I was consumed by infatuation and the lure of this intoxicating man. My days went by in anticipation, feeling as if I was in a constant state of vigilance, awaiting another chance to be near him.

Upon his promotion, Mr Harrington had been allocated a coveted office in the Executive Suite and had swept onto the top 6floor of the bank’s Canary Wharf headquarters with his entourage of support staff in tow. His reputation as a charismatic leader, shrewd businessman and, probably most importantly, a notorious ladies man, preceded him. In the weeks leading up to Patrick Harrington moving in, everyone on the forty-second floor was talking about his imminent arrival. I had been teased mercilessly about his penchant for young blondes.

My boss is Eloise Little, a hard-nosed businesswoman, with connections across all the divisions of the company. Her name may be Little but her persona is anything but.

Back in London, after Patrick had made his official introduction in New York, Eloise had seen the two of us talking one Monday morning. Patrick was poised at my desk and I was trying hard not to gaze up at him, knowing that if I did I would get lost in his penetrating blue eyes and become a mumbling mess again. Moments after he had left, I was summoned into her office and without so much as a hello she barked, “What were you talking to THAT man about?”

Reeling, I stammered that he was asking me about my weekend. I could see the beginnings of a sneer as she evaluated me. “I’m watching you,” she whispered and her eyes fell away from me. A dismissal. I backed out of her office and wondered what it was that she knew and I didn’t.

Since then, there have been fleeting moments of being in close proximity to Patrick Harrington that I have clung to and rehashed over and over in my mind. The time that he walked into the coffee shop around the corner from the office building as I was paying for my morning cup, I dropped my change and he deftly picked it up and handed it to me. I had blushed with embarrassment for being so clumsy. I could have sworn I felt electricity as our skin touched.

There was also the time that Eloise and I had seen him in the Concorde Room, the First Class lounge at Heathrow’s Terminal Five ahead of another trip to New York. Patrick and Eloise had a cordial conversation, which seemed to mask something deeper about the way they truly feel about each other. All the while, I sat on the couch beside her and felt his gaze drift over me, stopping for a nanosecond as our eyes met. My cheeks flushed and Eloise, with her cat like senses, had truncated their conversation. Much 7to my disappointment he had moved away and settled himself out of view on the other side of the lounge.

The Caldwell Executives have the luxury of travelling first class. Their support crew are lucky enough to fly business class. I was green with envy that Eloise was in such close quarters with Patrick for seven whole hours. She had come through to my cabin to hand me a stack of work and dropped me a few precious scraps of information about him. “Patrick is watching movies and laughing far too loudly for my liking. I think he’s had more than one glass of wine with his meal.” I relished the intimate glimpse, albeit second-hand, that the fabulous Mr Harrington did not take himself too seriously.

Eloise is teetotal, unwavering as a practising vegan and a compulsive workaholic. She looks fantastic and her looks belie her fifty-five years. She is petite and slim with thick shoulder length chestnut hair worn in a perfectly manicured bob with a very straight fringe (or ‘bangs’ as she would call them). She could be mistaken for Anna Wintour. Eloise has flawless skin from a strict nutrition plan prohibiting her from ingesting the same toxins as the rest of us mere mortals, she has barely a wrinkle on her face. One exception to Eloise’s ‘my body is a temple’ mantra is regular ‘Teosyal’ gel fillers around her eyes, lips and across her forehead to maintain a youthful complexion.

Eloise had chosen to talk to me about her desire for a facelift, discussing the merits of the best cosmetic surgeons in Paris, Los Angeles and London. I could do nothing but listen, in awe of the lessons I was learning about plastic surgery. Instead of taking this more drastic step, Eloise had elected to use injections to look younger. I was privy to information about my boss that extended beyond the office.

In the twelve months since I have been working with Eloise, we have grown close - or as close as anyone can be to her. I have earned her trust and become part of her ‘inner circle’, which is no mean feat. Eloise has a well-earned reputation of being direct, execution focused and fearless. She is exacting, demanding and borderline obsessive. Her expectations of others are as high as the ones she places on herself. The description ‘ball breaker’ is often used in conjunction with her name.

On the flip side, Eloise had frequently opened up to me during 8our gruelling schedule of business trips and revealed her softer human aspects. We had reached the stage where we could pass transit time in companionable conversation. She and I had shared intimate details of our lives with each other. We had both lost our fathers in the same year some years earlier, and despite the difference in circumstances, we were able to compare notes on where we were with our grieving processes. We sometimes dined together when travelling and would plan to meet in the hotel gymnasium each morning, utilising treadmills that stood companionably side-by-side.

Flying for Eloise consisted of churning through as much material as possible between takeoff and landing. This normally meant that I too would be working throughout the flight, and often for hours more upon landing, after setting up my mobile office in my hotel room. Time zone differences were always disregarded and I was on duty from the second I met her at the airport to the moment we parted ways on our return to London.

I am snapped back to the present moment as I hear him move; he is unaware that he is being watched. My stomach is churning and I feel a bit queasy, a little shaky and slightly excited all at once. The flutters in my belly move south and I feel ashamed at the racy thoughts that are streaming into my head, unadulterated. Is he really that dangerous? Why does this thought make him even more attractive to me?

I move awkwardly towards my desk. Half of me prays that I can get there without being noticed. The other half realises that even if this is true, he will see me when he leaves and will think I am rude for not having greeted him. Both my better nature and my career-mindedness dispel any notion of pretending I have not seen him.

I make it to my desk and sit down with a sigh. My mind is racing and I have no inclination to start any work. I can only concentrate on one thing. Him. My mind flashes with a vivid image, almost as if I am out-of-body, viewing it from above. The papers from my desk are strewn across the floor, and I am lying on my desk, my hands gripping its edges, my jeans and panties pushed around my ankles. Patrick is kneeling on the floor in front of me with his head between my legs.

My cheeks burn, and I blink hard several times to try to clear the salacious images from my mind.

9Brought back to consciousness, I hear the music a little louder now that I am closer to his office, and I recognise the melodious voice of Alicia Keyes. How current, I think, and then remember that he is only 40.

I have been working for Caldwell, one of Britain’s largest high street banks with a very profitable Capital Markets business, for the entirety of my eight-year career. Eloise Little is the Chief Finance Officer and a harsh taskmaster. I have worked hard and landed myself a coveted role as one of her aides. It is common knowledge within the firm that a role as the right hand person to one of the Executives is a sure fire way to accelerate your career. If you can cut it.

In reality, it is the mundane to the sublime. I find myself staying late in the evening to collate and staple papers because Eloise doesn’t trust anyone else to come into contact with highly sensitive documents. In other heady moments, I will act on delegated authority and make important decisions for, or more accurately, ‘as’ Eloise. I am privy to everything that comes through her office, from commercially sensitive financial data to seeing the packages offered to senior staff joining or being ‘asked to leave’ the bank.

My position does have a few perks, one of which is the ability to look up personal information, including pay data, about anyone in the company. Patrick earns a fortune each year. The bank awarded him more than ten million quid last year. For the rest of the world’s population, it’s tantamount to winning the lottery annually. Along with the knowledge of his telephone-number-length compensation package, one of the other facts I know about the gorgeous Patrick Florence Harrington is that we share the same birthday. Eleven years apart, but the same date, and the hopeless romantic in me assumes that there is something fated in that.

I sense movement, and from the corner of my eye I see him looking through the privacy frosting strips on his glass office front. I feel the slow creep of a blush again, as blood rushes up my neck and to my face. I keep my head forward but my eyes trained on his office. He is still watching me. I see his lips slowly curl into a small smile.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I find myself standing up with a confidence I don’t think I possess and walking as purposefully as I can toward his office. He is leaning back in his chair 10now, tracking my progress. What do you think you’re doing? What are you going to say? My mind screams.

I stop in the doorway, leaning on the jamb, but keeping most of my body out of view. I inwardly curse myself for not dressing better or applying any makeup before leaving my house that morning. My dry throat reminds me of the hangover I am suffering. I swallow hard a few times and squeak a timid, “Hello.”

His icy cool blue eyes are dancing and his face softens into a wide boyish smile. “Hello, Alexandra. What an unexpected pleasure.”

My nerves tingle as I sweep my eyes over his lean body and come to rest on his face. I reflect his smile nervously and our eyes lock in such a way that I couldn’t tear them away even if I tried.

“What are you doing here on a Sunday?” he asks me.

The words tumble out of my mouth as I tell him about my night out and that I was not expecting to see anyone today, almost as an excuse for my dishevelled appearance. He surveys me and nods imperceptibly. His face gives nothing away but his eyes continue to sparkle.

We fall into easy conversation and I marvel at his ability to make me feel like I actually matter in his world. I am so nervous yet I feel exhilarated at the same time. He asks me why I am so diligent with my work and I feel myself relax a little. This is comfortable ground for me. As long as I don’t mention Eloise. Caldwell’s CEO, Brad Stone, relies on no other member of his Executive Team the way he does Eloise and she is his most trusted advisor. She had been one of the most vocal in support of his recruitment in front of the Board when he was hired to join the bank years previously. Yet Patrick has made the bank a lot of money and he is a ruthless businessman. They both vie for Brad’s attention and it seems that if he is aware of the tension between the two of them, he is not concerned enough to do anything about it. Perhaps he even fosters this rivalry, I think to myself.

I hear myself telling Patrick that I want to be promoted and wonder to myself why I am being so candid with him, particularly given that there is no love lost between this man and my boss who holds the keys to my future career.

He looks at me intently. His eyes are boring into mine, and he tells me that if there is anything he can do to help my career he will. I can’t believe that I, Alexandra Fisher, am having this 11conversation with such a powerful and disarmingly good-looking man.

I congratulate him on his promotion and tell him that I’m in awe of his meteoric rise through the company’s ranks. I see his mask of calm slip for a second as he processes the compliment.

He pauses and looks at me with such intensity that I feel almost naked. “If you ever want to have dinner with me to discuss your career let me know,” he breathes. I am stupefied. Is the amazing Patrick Harrington asking me on a date?

I suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to get out from under his gaze. I mumble something about needing to get on with my work and escape from out of his office doorway.

My head and heart pound in unison as I make my way back to the safety of my desk. Why didn’t I take him up on the offer of dinner? Would he really want to have a meal with me? I’m rattled and cursing myself for throwing away the opportunity presented to me. I’d been dreaming about a date with this amazing man. I had the chance to make it a reality and I blew it.

I decide to take my laptop and the papers I need and work from home. Not ideal to turn around and trek back west to Putney after such a short stay in the office, but it will get me away from the alluring Patrick and spare me the ordeal of a second interaction today. I cannot focus with him in such close proximity, especially knowing that we are alone on the floor.

That night, I replay every moment of our conversation, over and over. I fall into an exhausted sleep next to my faithful yet dull by comparison boyfriend. It turned out to be anything but a normal day.

12

Harrington

It started out as a normal day. I think to myself, I will be spending my precious leisure time working. Again.

I glance at my reflection in my bathroom mirror and smile to myself. I am in great shape and my muscles tingle slightly from the sex I had earlier this morning.

I am still slightly irritated at not finding someone to pick up at my regular hangout, the bar at Mayfair’s Nobu Berkeley, last night. But on reflection, I saved myself the hassle of having to eject a hopeful slut from my house in the early hours of the day. I don’t do sleepovers. Thankfully, Faezeh was, as usual, more than willing to come over when I called this morning. I rang an Addison Lee taxi to collect her and had them wait, unbeknown to her, as I was not planning to set aside time for cuddles or conversation after I had taken what I wanted. My time is precious and post-coital pleasantries don’t feature on my agenda.

I had padded to the door, my jeans barely done up, my checked shirt hanging open following the sound of the doorbell. As soon as she had crossed the threshold of the front door of my house I had her in my arms, urgently kissing her, as I moved her from the hallway toward the kitchen. I did not want her in my bedroom.

13I cast my mind back reflecting on the interaction. She is hungry for me as usual. I can tell she is trying hard to resist me, but given the ease with which she agrees to come over and the lengths she is willing to go for me, we both know it’s a charade.

I am actually bored of her but I rank sex with her a little higher than masturbation. I stop kissing her long enough so she can take off her coat. She is wearing nothing but white lacy underwear underneath. She doesn’t remove her heels. She knows better. I smile at her and she flashes me what she thinks is a dazzling grin. To me she looks unnecessarily eager and I lose respect for her. I prefer a challenge. I know she is thinking she has impressed me with her sheer lingerie when in fact I am feeling rather smug about the disarming effect I have on women. That, and the fact that her lack of clothes means I can get her out of my place quicker. She only needs to throw her coat back on. If only she knew what I was thinking. Thankfully I am well practised at this and my face doesn’t betray what is going through my mind.

Faezeh Farahani works at the Financial Times as a reporter covering Capital Markets and the Banking industry generally. She is often at the same events and conferences as I am and we met at a seminar a few years ago where I was on the panel answering questions from investors. Upon meeting her, I had discovered Faezeh had a hotel room at the summit venue. Her glad eyes told me that she was up for anything. Without much persuasion on my part I had ensured we had made use of that hotel room during each break that day. She has watched my career progress at Caldwell and has always written favourably about me in the paper. I know from experience that she is willing to take what little I offer her while volunteering to me whatever I want in return.

Faezeh is foreign, Iranian, which has always had a strange appeal. Maybe it is the passing resemblance to the Kardashian girls. Her hair is a deep brown, and her eyes are crinkled with crow’s feet, the giveaway that she is in her mid-forties. Ten years ago she was probably very attractive. She tries hard to make herself look pretty but there is limited raw material to work with. She has large fake breasts, which are her redeeming feature, sitting round and pert on her chest. They allow me to overlook the cellulite on her thighs as I lift her onto my kitchen counter. She lays her body back and obediently opens her legs. I pull at her 14panties with one hand while deftly unhooking her bra with the other. I absently think that she should spend more money on her lingerie.

I start running the fingers of one hand in tiny circles around her left breast and she moans on cue, her nipple growing hard to my touch. My groin twitches. Not because this woman turns me on, but because of the power I have over her. I shuffle out of my jeans without taking my hand from her body. I am not wearing any boxer shorts and my erection springs free.

With my other hand I none-too-gently push her lips apart and rub her clitoris. She is already wet. “Have you got any naughty stories to tell me?” I ask her.

She has her head back, writhing slowly under my touch, her breasts barely shifting while her back arches. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Patrick. I was so happy you called.” My erection fades slightly. I don’t want to hear this.

“Have you found another woman for us to play with?” I prompt. My sexual appetite is insatiable and when I know I have a woman under my command I will push her to try things she may never have been willing to before. Faezeh has proven that she will go above and beyond what most woman will do just to stay on side with me. This is as much appealing as it is a turn-off.

“There’s a woman at work that I think would be interested,” she whispers as her breathing quickens. This is more like it, and the thought of two women simultaneously pleasuring me has the blood rushing back to my cock.

“Tell me about her,” I order as I continue to work my fingers around her labia, teasing her, feeling her body succumbing to me. I grab roughly at her large breasts, squeezing her nipples, and she lets out a sharp gasp.

“I would do anything for you, Pat,” she says in a husky voice. My annoyance returns unbidden. I don’t like to be called Pat by anyone and the thought that this woman thinks we are intimate enough to be calling me by anything other than my full name irks me immensely.

I try once more to keep the conversation on the subject at hand. “What does she look like?” I ask as I slide one finger inside her. I feel her pelvic floor clench and her vagina respond. I quickly move a second finger in and push hard into her wetness.

“She is blonde. Young, about 25, I think. She is attractive, just 15gorgeous. From the stories she has told me I think she’s a filthy bitch.” Her voice is ragged as her breath catches as she tries to speak while I continue to push my fingers deep inside her. I can see she is trying hard to be seductive, looking up at me from beneath her eyelashes, hoping to please me.

The picture of another blonde pervades my mind. Why am I thinking about her? The thrill of infatuation fills my senses and I suddenly want this woman here with me out of my house as soon as possible.

I grab a condom that earlier I had tactically placed close by, and deftly slide it on. Within moments I am pulling her hips toward me and entering her with hard, sharp thrusts.

I can’t get the image of Alexandra Fisher out of my head. I look down at Faezeh pushing herself against me, moaning and contorting her face, her hands gripping each side of the kitchen counter. I block her out of my consciousness. I imagine the lithe form of Alex Fisher instead as my body pushes rhythmically towards an orgasm. I feel the tingling sensations build and the wave of pleasure surge through my groin until I am spent. Underneath me, Faezeh is groaning and whimpering. Perhaps she faked it. I don’t really care.

I step away from her, pull on my jeans and let her pick up her underwear. The smell of our sex hangs heavy in the air.

“You seem distracted,” she says to me after a moment.

I realise I need to throw her a bone in case I need her again. I put on an appreciative stare and say, with meaning I don’t feel, “You were amazing as always, Fuzzy.” I see her relax and her eyes light up.

I walk over and kiss her lightly on the mouth. I ask about her job, which sets her off chattering. I am barely listening as my mind shifts to the work I have to do today. At the first appropriate opportunity, I tell her I need to head into the office. I see her face drop momentarily but she quickly gathers herself as she realises there will be no breakfast or niceties. I see her face register that I am asking her to leave.

I gesture toward the front door and tell her the taxi is waiting to take her wherever she needs to go. I walk away, towards my bathroom and hear the front door click as she leaves. I probably should have at least shown her out.

Once showered, I am ready to leave. John, my driver, is waiting 16 to take my briefcase and holds the rear car door open for me. John knows to have the passenger seat wound as far forward as it will go, allowing me to sit in the back and extend my long legs. Being 6’3 has both its advantages and disadvantages. While women love tall men, the basis of natural selection, getting comfortable when travelling is nearly impossible.

My iPhone flashes with a text message. I check it and see there are several unread texts. The most recent one is from Faezeh: ‘P, it was truly amazing this morning. I feel unreal. I’ll be horny all day thanks to you. F xx’

I cannot believe how desperate some women are. It does them no favours. There will be no reply to her until I think she might be of use again. I quickly scan the other messages. Tanja the masseuse reminding me of my appointment that afternoon. Dave, my best friend, asking me if I’m free for a burger tonight.

I leave my phone and start reading emails on my Blackberry as the BMW saloon glides through Knightsbridge towards the city aiming for the tall modern office buildings of Canary Wharf. It is an icy cold February morning in London and the skies are an unending grey. Stopped at traffic lights on the Thames Embankment, warmed by the BMW’s heated reclining seat, I reflect on the hustle and bustle of London. Despite the inclement weather there are still plenty of people walking in the street, rugged up against the cold and huddled under their umbrellas, going about their business.

I go back to reading an important email on the impact of recent Financial Services Authority regulation on bankers’ remuneration. A topic close to my heart and one the media both in this country and across the Atlantic are all over. ‘Fat cat bankers’, they love to report.

My eyes soften and I stop seeing the typeface in front of me. Instead I picture the timid smile of Alexandra Fisher in my mind’s eye and my heart beats faster. I noticed her on the first day I had moved into my new office. She sits at a desk on my floor, outside the office of Eloise Little. Eloise is not my biggest fan and the feeling is entirely mutual. I was sure Alex knew who I was but I wanted to engage her in conversation to see how she would respond to the attentions of a rich, powerful, successful man.

The first opportunity I had to introduce myself to her was before an Executive Team meeting in New York, my first, soon 17after my promotion. She had been polite and professional. There was no hint that she might fancy me. No apparent nerves and certainly no flirting. A cold reaction is not something I am used to getting from a beautiful woman and I feel compelled to correct this. I am at odds. How is it that this young girl has this effect on me while I have had so little effect on her?

I arrive at my prized corner office and smile to myself. I have almost made it. Having been recently promoted to the Executive Team of the bank, I am one step away from my ultimate goal, becoming CEO of the company I have worked for my whole career. I joined Caldwell as a graduate on their trading training programme. Back then the bank was predominantly a Retail Banking organisation. Now, the Capital Markets business is a dominant profit-making force and it overshadows its poor cousin, the retail division. Through organic growth and acquisition, Caldwell’s Investment Bank has grown into one of the world’s leading risk management houses and global financiers, rivalling the Wall Street banks in size, revenue and profile. As the company grew, my aspirations grew with it.

I settle into my tall-backed white leather chair and look at the pile of papers my personal assistant has left on my desk. I grab my iPhone and, still in no mood to reply to any of the earlier text messages, I set music playing instead. Soon, I am in the zone, the music relaxing me as I read and mark up papers in readiness for what the coming week has to bring.

I am so engrossed in what I am doing that I am somewhat startled to realise there is now someone else on the floor. My reverie broken, I look up and realise I cannot see who it is through the privacy frosting of my glass fronted office.

When my new office was being set up, not only did I pick the paint colour for the walls and choose the artwork, but I was also very explicit about the placement of the desk. I wanted to be in a position where I can always discreetly check to see who is coming and going. Making opportunities out of seemingly casual encounters. The spectacular view from the forty-second floor out over the docklands and the city of London holds little appeal for me. This job is all about relationships. Tactical relationships. Of which, I am the master.

I lean down to see between the privacy frosting strips and my heart begins to beat a little quicker. It is she. I smile to myself, 18thinking of the sex I had this morning, sex I enjoyed for the sole reason that I was visualising her body writhing underneath me.

I feel myself growing hard as I watch the exquisite form of Ms Alexandra Fisher moving across the open plan office toward her desk. If she has noticed me, she is pretending she hasn’t. I take in her tousled blonde hair, the simple black figure hugging top, showing the curve of her full breasts, her ripped jeans, skinny and hugging her long legs. My eyes trace from her narrow waist, down her slender thighs and see that her jeans disappear into knee high boots. My erection is now pushing uncomfortably against my fly and my heart is beating fast.

I watch her as she sits, folding one long shapely leg underneath her. She extracts her laptop from her desk drawer, docks it into the monitors sitting on her desk and fires it up. I watch her wrists, her fingers, her hands and a movie reel spins through my head of those hands all over my body, pleasuring me. For a few moments, she sits very still and stares straight ahead. Then without warning she is on her feet striding across to my office.

I swivel my seat so the lower half of my body is hidden by my desk and lean back in my chair in an effort to look nonchalant. I will my body’s reaction to seeing her to dissipate. Alexandra Fisher is standing in my doorway, but she is not letting me see the full extent of herself. Unlike our interchange in New York, this time her nerves are palpable. I feel myself breaking into a wide smile.

Alexandra takes two full breaths and then utters, “Hello.”

“Hello, Alexandra. What an unexpected pleasure.”

Later, as John is driving me back across the city, I reflect on our exchange and I am frustrated that I find myself so infatuated by this girl. She told me that she admires my meteoric rise through the company’s ranks and I chuckle to myself and think that this girl is completely unaware of the meteoric rise she caused in my pants by being there this morning.

During the short conversation we had, I offered to take her out to dinner and she had blinked at me and retreated as quickly as she could without being rude. Does she not find me attractive? I dismiss that thought from my head as quickly as it arrives.

I feel like I am skating on thin ice. Eloise ‘the nut cracker’ Little, Alexandra’s boss, cannot stand me. I do my best to feign a relationship with her but she is a zealot, and I don’t like her. I 19imagine Eloise thinks that I’m trouble, and will no doubt have heard the tales I know people tell. Everyone loves to talk about the enigmatic Patrick Harrington. Just over forty and never been married. Good looking, successful and made very wealthy by a career in trading followed by elevation into management.

I am also fairly certain that Eloise is annoyed that I have never hit on her. She is one of the few women I cannot bring myself to flirt with. I know that her opinion of me will have some bearing on the reaction I witnessed from Alex but I’m still annoyed. How am I going to fulfil my desires and fantasies if I cannot even entice Alexandra to go out for a meal with me?

I feel pent up with frustration. I check my diary and see that I have a massage with my regular masseuse Tanja at 5pm, which is forty-five minutes away. I grab my iPhone and text Tanja. “See you soon sweet lady.”

Tanja is Croatian born and very good at what she does. The Notting Hill Spa employs her, which is just across Hyde Park from my Knightsbridge house. Tanja is also stunning, with her closely cropped brown hair and sharp angular features. I tingle at the thought of her strong slender hands rubbing me down with fragrant oils, and the finale of the massage which will be that brunette head bobbing up and down as I watch her take me deep into her throat and I climax. Tanja likes to swallow which pleases me immensely. She also has no misconceptions about what our relationship is: purely transactional. We both get what we want. I relax and she gets paid, handsomely, for an hours work.

Today, the massage and ‘happy ending’ with Tanja doesn’t work its usual magic. That night, after a burger with Dave and his saccharine sweet but dull as dishwater girlfriend I think back to my unexpected office encounter. I am thinking obsessively about Alexandra Fisher. Despite two sexual interactions today I feel wholly unsatisfied and entirely frustrated. I am used to getting what I want.

After jerking myself off to images of Alexandra Fisher acting out my fantasies, I fall into an exhausted sleep in my empty super-king bed. It turned out to be anything but a normal day.

20

Alexandra

Monotonous days pass, and that Sunday encounter with Patrick Harrington at work begins to feel like it was an eternity ago. I feel like a battery hen. I get up in the dark; I spend what little daylight time there is indoors and then leave for home well after dark. I feel blue. The fun of all the Christmas festivities are over and summer is still months away.

February has turned into March and I am busy as always, with Eloise working on the financials for the Caldwell Annual General Meeting and the materials for presenting to shareholders and investors. I run my fingers down the list of presenters, lingering on Patrick Harrington’s name.

The mere thought of him starts butterflies fluttering in my stomach and a pulsing of blood to my groin. I try to push him out of my thoughts, as he is in them constantly these days, but nothing seems to work. I feel a little restless with desire and this makes me feel foolish as I have a doting and loyal boyfriend. Joseph Levy. Loving, stable, dependable Joey. But Joey is driving me nuts. I think that my unfathomable crush on such a powerful and attractive man seems to be influencing my views on my current situation.

21Joey and I have been together since I was 20. I had never really had a serious boyfriend before this, and my sexual experiences were limited to a few clumsy drunken trysts and short-lived flings. I was so focused on my studies and enjoying the experience of living away from home that I didn’t have time for men. I was scared of being intimate with guys and I did not like to let anyone get too close to me.

Joey and I met at Cambridge University where we were both studying History at Clare College. I was on a partial scholarship and, along with a summer job in a local shoe store, to make ends meet I had secretly tutored secondary school kids in what little spare time I had, despite being against the rules of Cambridge University. Joey’s youngest brother Gabriel was one of my students.

The Levy family are wealthy. Joey had never wanted for anything growing up and was part of a strong family unit full of love and laughter. A stark contrast to my family situation and upbringing. His parents had sent their four boys, of which Joey was the oldest, to the renowned Perse School in Cambridge. They still live close by, up the River Cam, in Grantchester Village.

During our time at university, Joey and his friends would go to the same events, ‘ents’ or ‘bops’ as the students affectionately call them, as my friends and me. From parties to formal dinners we spent a good deal of our social time moving in the same circles. The weeks would be similar. An average evening would start at a drinking society and end up in one of the many nightclubs in the centre of Cambridge. Fifth Avenue on a Tuesday for example, a seedy club, where you had to queue on the stairs only to get in to find a small bar and a dance floor enhanced with disco balls and mirrors creating shadows like the walls of Hiroshima. The big draw cards were the foam parties and 80s nights.

I have fond memories of Wednesday evenings spent at Life, drinking alcopops, listening to an ageing but amenable DJ before moving on to Toxic8. Thursday night was always spent at Fez Club, with its cosy atmosphere helped by its unique layout of many nooks and crannies, making it perfect for intimate ‘conversations’.

And then there were the weekends. Clare Cellars, the seventeenth Century crypt, was popular on a Saturday night for break beats and hip-hop, or for a themed party; ‘Beach Night’ 22