Five
Jennifer
I takea deep breath then walk as confidently as I can into the large lobby, which is just about as empty as the building I normally work in. I feel a twinge of guilt, as I think again about Kendall, sitting there behind the reception desk today on her own, probably bored out of her mind, believing that I’m currently home sick with food poisoning (which is the excuse I gave her when I called up first thing this morning).
“Can I help you?” the girl on reception says as I step up to the counter. Her long blonde hair is immaculately almost impossibly straight and her icy blue eyes make no attempt whatsoever to hide the fact that she’s looking me up and down as if she’s never seen anyone likemein a high class place like this before, making no attempt whatsoever that she obviously thinks I’mtrash.
I push my shoulders back, take a deep breath, and say my name as loudly and confidently as I can. “I’m Jennifer Adams,” I explain. “And I’m here for a five o’ clock appointment with Mr Whitelaw?”
“Oh,you’reMiss Adams?” she says, again making no attempt to mask her surprise. “You’re not exactly what I was expecting ... Well, anyway, take the elevator in the corner up to floor fifteen. Mr Whitelaw will be waiting for you in his office. It’s at the end of the corridor. I’ll call up now to let him know that you’re here.”
And with that, she turns her icy cold gaze away from me to the phone in front of her, picking it up and dialing through an internal call, her perfectly manicured glossy pink nails tapping and clicking against the plastic buttons of the phone, as I turn, somewhat shaken, make my way towards the elevators.
As I push the button and step inside, summoning floor fifteen, I wonder just what exactly she meant about me beingnot what she was expecting...
I look myself over in the mirrored wall of the elevator as it rockets me upward toward the fifteenth floor, hoping that I’ve not got some major wardrobe malfunction going on. But no. To my relief, my homemade outfit seems to be holding up okay.
And I’ve certainly chosen clothes to best show off my figure too – which, okay, might not be the mostcurvyor voluptuous you’ve ever seen, and if anything might be regarded as kind of skinny. But I’ve done the best with what I’ve got: the way I’ve re-sown this white silk blouse certainly shows off my small but pert breasts, and the cut of my redesigned skirt draws attention to my best asset, too: my ass.
I turn my focus to my face and hair, hoping to God that my makeup hasn’t smudged or my hair hasn’t decided to defy the straightening I put it through this morning and spring up at some crazy angle. But no, as far as I can see, everything is still remaining nicely in place – my hair staying straight and glossy, and my big brown eyes shown off pretty nicely with the cat-flick eyeliner technique I diligently followed to the letter this morning on YouTube...
Just then, the elevator pings loudly to announce that it’s reached its destination, and the brushed chrome doors glide open with a swish to reveal a long, empty corridor with a set of imposing frosted glass double doors waiting for me at the far end.
That must be Mr Whitelaw’s office, I think nervously as I begin to walk slowly towards them. And as I walk, I wonder just what kind of a guy could want to spend a crazy amount of money on flyingvirginsin from all around the country just to interview them for ...whatexactly?
I feel another sharp stab of worry, as it dawns on me all over again that I don’t even know what the hell he wants me for. I need to make sure I don’t get my hopes up here. Because he’s most likely gonna be some creepy, ugly old guy with more money than sense, who will no doubt will want me to do something really disgusting and gross ...
I’ve reached the set of doors by now – they’re just frosted enough that I can’t quite see through them, with a simple nameplate attached that reads:Marcus Whitelaw, CEO.
I pause.
Do I knock?
Or do I just push them open and stride inside?
In the end, I decide on the first option, reaching out a shaky fist and knocking timidly, three times, on the cold hard glass.
“Come in,” a voice calls back – a surprisingly deep and sonorous voice, with just a hint of an accent that I can’t quite put my finger on.
I gather my nerves, my heart hammering hard in my chest now, as I push open the doors and step inside.
But even with every option I’ve considered so far, there’s one fact that I’m just notat allprepared for when I push open those doors ...
Six
Jennifer
Marcus Whitelaw isgorgeous,and I’m not one to use that word lightly. I’m talking the heart-stopping, panty-melting,unable-to-stop-myself-from-immediately-imagining-him-nakedkind of gorgeous.
When I first step inside the office, he’s standing with his back to me, gazing out on the sprawling city skyline below us that’s shown off impressively through the amazing floor-to-ceiling windows that make up three of the four walls of his office, but the moment he turns around to look at me? Well, let’s just say that his beauty hits me with the full force of a steamroller, knocking all the air from my lungs and all sensible thoughts from my head.
He’stall– way over six foot – and the immaculately tailored lines of his beautiful navy suit tell me that underneath that sumptuous blue cloth, he’sbuilttoo.
But the absolute jewel in the crown is his face. It’s perfect, flawless (and did I mentiongorgeousalready?!). His big grey eyes pin me firmly in place the moment they set upon me and I actually feel myself getting sucked into them – like he’s sending out some kind of crazy traction beam. Meanwhile his thick, sensuous lips curl into the faint suggestion of a smile, lighting up his perfectly symmetrical face, which is framed exquisitely by thick blonde hair andthemost chiseled, sculpted jawline I’ve ever seen before on man or woman, not to mention the most beautiful cheekbones, too -- cheekbones that would be the envy of any model. Even the dusting of light brown stubble that flecks his tanned, honey-colored skin only adds to the appeal, along with the way his collar is a little rumpled, and his tie is pulled open, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of his thick manly neck.
And you know what’s weirdest of all?
I feel my body responding to him – in a way itneverdoes. You see, I guess part of the reason I’ve remained a virgin my whole twenty-one years of existence, is that I’ve just never found guysthatattractive – certainly not the way all my girlfriends did back in college seemed to do, gushing and cooing over ‘cute’ boys and so forth. I just couldn’t ever quite see what all the fuss was about.
