I am staring between my boss’ face and the back of my, my what? My shag piece from last night? Whatever he is, I am still staring at his back that is turned towards me as he faces my boss.
“No, no, this can wait,” Mr Peterson assures my whatever.
“Christian, it would appear that it has been waiting for eighteen months so maybe it can’t wait any longer.”
“Oh, okay then.” My boss sighs and for the first time the possible consequences to my actions begin to register in my mind and I start to panic that I may get the sack.
“Good, let’s familiarise ourselves. It would be remiss of me to sit in on your meeting and not know your name,” he says turning to face me.
I know I’m staring wildly, mainly because it seems odd that he needs to exchange names to sit in on a meeting with me but not to fuck me. Fortunately, Mr Peterson has his mind together enough to introduce us.
“Mason Harding.” He gestures to the man whose deep blue eyes are boring into me.
“Olivia Carrington.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mason says.
“You too.” I accept his outstretched hand, immediately regretting it as the burn of his touch registers and my nostrils are assaulted with the scent of him, the same scent from last night and this morning; woody, clean and citrusy at the same time. I pull away quickly as I feel my pulse rate increasing and my libido going into overdrive.
He smiles, convincing me that he knows the effect his touch has on me.
“You don’t mind if I sit in do you? I don’t want to be intrusive or overfamiliar.” His words make me stare even more thinking that he couldn’t be more familiar if he tried after last night.
“No,” I reply in a hushed tone, unsure who or what this man is.
He smiles, a triumphant smile as I take the seat he’s gesturing to, putting me next to him and opposite Mr Peterson.
Unsure how best to sit I cross my legs and instantly regret it because not only does that position push my skirt up giving Mason a flash of my legs, moreover because the soreness I feel between my legs after my night with the aforementioned Mason is increased in this position.
Almost immediately I unfold my legs and place both feet flat on the floor to see him smirking. I would actually like to punch him for that smirk alone because I know he knows why I changed my position. That he is responsible for my soreness. That he fucked me senseless last night.
“Is that your portfolio?” Mason asks, pointing to the folder I’m holding, interrupting my thoughts.
I nod and hand it to him. “It’s an edited version of my full one.”
As he skims through my things Mr Peterson turns his attention to me. “Olivia, I know you may feel a little frustrated by your role here but you are an asset to the company, on reception.” He gives me a sense of optimism until he added the last two words of that sentence.
“You have some good ideas,” Mason throws in. “A good eye.”
I am still waiting for Mr Peterson to say something positive about my opportunities in the company, but he appears to have nothing else to say so I speak.
“Mr Peterson, that doesn’t reassure me or offer me any kind of incentive to remain here long term. Reception work is all well and good and the fact that I can placate Mrs Tyrell when she is seething about the state of her sunroom isn’t enough for me. It’s not what I want to do, so maybe I should look elsewhere for opportunities that don’t seem to exist here.”
Mason is looking across at me with a frown before turning to Peterson, “You have a dissatisfied customer?”
“What? No, yes, kind of, but Olivia has passed those concerns on and I will deal with them later. Mrs Tyrell likes Olivia, she calms her when she’s fraught,” he tells Mason and I have no clue where this fits in with anything but I can’t miss the scowl tossed my way by my boss or the one Mason throws at Mr Peterson.
“Miss Carrington, I am here to engage Christian’s services for some of my offices and I like your stuff.” Mason hands my portfolio back. “I have listened to your desire to gain professional experience and admire it so what if I agree to let you work on my building, with a more experienced designer of course?”
“Why would you do that?” I find myself asking and hope to God that his response doesn’t reveal our night together.
“Why do you think?” His eyebrows quirk making me panic that I am the one who is about to reveal our history to my boss now.
“I, erm,” I stammer.
“I said, I admire your desire,” he says, making me blush. “Professional desire, but if you’re not interested…”
“No, no I am, thank you, if Mr Peterson is agreeable.”
