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“Hello, Gemma.”
“Hello, Jason.”
Greetings were somewhat mute.
“What’s wrong?” probed Jason.
“Just, I thought you weren’t interested in me anymore, until I got your call,” I blurted out, not hiding my disappointment.
He looked cross, very cross indeed.
“Gemma, let’s get this clear, I’m the owner and director of a big company, lots of things on the go. Long meetings, long days. I told you I worked hard. Don’t expect me to be all lovey dovey and romantic with you. There isn’t going to be flowers on your desk, poems in your emails or whatever. Get use to it,” he spoke harshly.
I looked down at my hands and my mind filled with silly contrite thoughts. For the entire week, perhaps I had been reading too much into his lack of interest in me. The most obvious explanation had been missing from my list; a busy chief executive would not have the inclination to woo his lowly intern. I should had known better, I was not really the romantic demanding type.
“Sorry.” It was all I could think to say.
“Have you eaten?” his voice had softened.
“Uh no, should I have?”
He laughed at my question. “Well if you were hungry – yes!”
I blushed back at him.
“I’m sure my housekeeper will have left enough of a dinner for two.”
Housekeeper – well, I should had guessed he had staff, I wonder if she was young or old.
We were in his kitchen and Jason inspected the fridge contents cautiously, like a foreign territory. The kitchen had a modern design, though it fitted with the house. Plain smooth wooden doors with simple handles. The surfaces white, spotless and clean. Apart from the coffee maker, toaster and kettle, nothing was out on the surface. Too sparse for me, I liked my kitchens to look like they were being cooked in.
“Great plenty here. Cutlery and stuff over there in the dresser,” he waved behind me as he fished out covered dishes and bowls.
A few minutes later, we were sitting at the pine table in his kitchen. An informal setting, I could not imagine Jason not having a plush dining room hidden in his spacious house. His jacket and tie had been divested somewhere, and I could see the smooth skin of chest above the button. I purred, thinking of how I had traced my fingers over his back and chest. He had impressive muscles for a man who lived in an office.
The food was deliciously good and the wi
ne he offered was way beyond my usual price tag - an ice-cold white wine and very tangy.
He talked, hesitantly at first and then more relaxed as the wine worked around his body. Jason Lucas was a self-made man who started his own business from scratch. Supported by a loving family, two brothers and a sister. Father and mother sufficiently endowed with money to send him to private schools and a good university. He told me he was bored by it and did not fit in with the typical student crowd. As soon as he had done his duty to his parents and graduated, he was off and built his empire. A natural flair for both business and leadership he took no hostages as he rose through the glass ceilings of city financial status.
“I do charity stuff too, you know,” he reassured me. “I’m not without a benevolent side. Tell me more about Gemma Marshall,” he looked directly into my eyes, piercing me.
I dreaded personal conversations, what did I say? I kept to the safe topic of my family. Loving and supportive and close to my protective big brother. I visited my parents occasionally but I did not depend on them emotionally or financially since university. I was keen to point out to Jason my independence. Graduating with a good degree, I had been a model student. Like him, I thought I had not fitted with the typical student mob. There had been very little alcohol imbued on my part and “a number of trivial dates, most were too immature for me,” I revealed.
Trivial dates. Not entirely true. I had not been promiscuous, nevertheless, I had been horny for sex and I had selected my partners carefully to avoid bad experiences. My parents had spent all their savings putting me through university and I could not bear to fail their generosity. When deadlines and exams approached, I had concentrated on my studies, putting aside my liaisons and bedroom frolics. When the pressure had eased off, I returned to bars and pubs with my friends and courted the attention of other students.
I took precautions. I had insisted on condoms in addition to my birth control pill and I tried to avoid first night sleepovers. Can we meet again? Perhaps next week? I had used standard phrases to put off until I was sure they were decent blokes worthy of intercourse with me. Students were generally sweet, cerebral and would make you coffee in the morning. I did not go with the locals. They had notched up scores on their headboards, boasted in the toilets, and then scrawled your name amongst the lewd graffiti.
When I did rein myself in, it had been in my second year. The novelty of having sex, without lying to my parents about my whereabouts, had worn off. I had a small clique of friends who formed my study group and revision buddies. My flatmates in my tiny digs were rarely in the building and I had the TV to myself most nights. I had become deliciously studious and kept to my deadlines. My tutors had been impressed and given me extra sessions if I had struggled with a topic.
The computer suite in the university had become my haunt with late nights designing and building programmes, the closest skill I had to being artistic. When I did have sex with a man, it had not been with the typical undergraduates. I had had them spill inside me during the first year and they had ceased to thrill me. Post-graduates had intrigued, as did mature students who had travelled, worked or seen something of life. Their sexual experience had showed through. That had been increasingly what I had sought - men who took me to bed and explored my sensual side.
I had one fling with a lecturer. I had gone to his study room to discuss my latest assignment and the hour was late. His room had been surprisingly uncluttered with the usual piles of paper, journals and books. The desk was practically clear and the shelves had books neatly arranged by subject. By his window was a leather armchair, mauled at the edges. It appeared to be well liked and used by him. With the blinds drawn, we had spent two hours talking. First about my essay, then the course, the university and eventually our extra curricula activities.
He was charming. Legs crossed and leaning back, he had ribbed his departmental colleagues with little shame. He tore strips off the students who had fallen short of his high standards and had handed in shoddy work.
“Not you, Gemma. You're a star,” he had said ingratiatingly.
