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My sensible self thought this sounded silly, especially since I didn’t have any clue who the guy was. But surprisingly, there was a funny power behind the message, and I did as I was told, it seemed he was watching me. Some vague face appeared in my thoughts, looking down on every movement, as I again reached under my skirt and hooked the side of my panties with my finger. A simple, slow tug, a subtle squirming in my seat and the panties were down to my knees. With another glance around and a brief check of my feelings—my thoughts of the master who commanded me had my arousal getting more intense by leaps and bounds—I pulled the panties over my legs and briskly stuffed them into my desk drawer.
Done.
Good girl. Leave at six, no sooner. We’ll meet tomorrow—online.
Yes, of course, he was exiting the building before me… a cover-up so I wouldn’t know who he was. I was pleased, relieved, scared, but damn curious. After savoring the sweet relief, the triumph and my own impatience for nearly ten minutes, I searched my desk for adequate cover, and found several files I could personally return to the outer offices, while seeing who was still there. Of course, my cyber master might have left by then, but my curiosity wouldn’t let me sit in my seat a moment longer. Besides, if I wiggled much more on the damp, sticky surface of my desk chair, I might have come. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
At five-thirty there were still a dozen people in the office, agents and secretaries, even the mail room clerk, who I was promised wasn’t my secret master. I did look at him deliberately, just to make sure he wasn’t giving me a fast line to put me off his tail. Nope. The guy was dull and certainly unimaginative… couldn’t have been more unlikely if he tried. If he had been the man, it would have been painfully obvious, which made this guy innocent. I still considered that Roddy was the guilty party, but in six weeks, there wasn’t one significant hint that he had any fascination for the sexual dark world I was after. I focused my attentions instead on the men I’d been ignoring since I started working at Lloyd & Lockhart Advertising—the agents and the higher echelon of executives whose business bored me and whose lifestyles I loathed for their inexcusable self-indulgence. I couldn’t think of one reason to want, approach or lust after any one of them, and yet, it seemed likely that one in their midst was on the other end of my frantic, furtive seesaw email conversation.
T J Niven… the comptroller—I knew this only because I had delivered reports to him in the past. He was curiously like the man with whom he shared the famous surname, David Niven: tall with a ramrod straight back and a poised polished look he carefully kept. In spite of the fact that he wasn’t English at all, I always thought I’d hear that distinctive accent come from his mouth, and was surprised when he revealed that he was just good old American. I thought him a bit of a wimp, actually, but he could be a closet pervert—maybe.
“Miss Sinclair,” he nodded as I passed him by. He’d never done that before, never said anything to me before. Sure, I’d delivered reports, but we’d never, ever connected. Suddenly my tummy was tingling, my pussy a little hotter than it already was in its wildly aroused state. I moved on. There were other possibilities to consider.
Ellington Lloyd… the President with a capital P. He had swaggering good looks, charm and elegance, though he took great pains to look casual for the troops: loosening his tie by midday, throwing his suit coat over his shoulder as he left for the evening, patting the secretaries on the back, all standard procedure. He was cheerleader, creator, the dynamo behind the advertising firm, and no doubt titillated any woman who passed through the door. I knew of three secretaries who thought he was ‘cute’; though cute was not the word I’d call him—not a man who’s nearly fifty years old. Still, if I bothered to get beyond the elements of his life I found crass and tedious, I could actually find him sexy. Could he pull off the ruse? Without a doubt. But would he have the time? The inclination? Not likely. Still, I could hardly scratch him off the list of possibilities. You never knew what was inside a man where he kept his secrets hidden.
“The report you asked for,” I said handing him one of the files I held to my chest. I hadn’t bothered to knock on his door; this was just a delivery.
“Yes, thank you,” he looked up and nodded at the same time answering the phone. He stared at me, I’m sure of it, deliberately stared. I didn’t now whether to go or stay. He seemed to make a waving motion that suggested I remain. Then as he talked, he thumbed through my research, appearing as interested in what I’d found as he was in the phone conversation. Finally, his face turned grim, “One second,” he said to the caller. He covered the mouthpiece; “I’ll catch you later.” He smiled and seemed to wave me on, so I left. See me later? About what? Our paths almost never crossed and he wanted something from me now? My hackles were up, my suspicions raised.
Joel McNary… advertising agent, the cream of the crop, a less influential version of Ellington Lloyd. He was still a forceful personality and in this younger version was seriously good-looking, even cute. His perfectly groomed dark hair and sculptured features were straight from the pages of a gentleman’s magazine. And though he was at risk of looking too much like a cliché, I could appreciate the package and its impact on most females. It certainly wouldn’t upset me if he were my mystery man. As I looked him straight in the face while handing him the finished project he’d tossed on my desk earlier that day, he looked me straight in the eye. I almost stepped back in surprise and I definitely lost my powers of speech. Suddenly remembering that my crotch was totally bare underneath my fairly short skirt, I worried that somehow the whole office could see through my beige skirt, and my private parts were there to critique. “Tha
nk you, Miss… hum,” he’d forgotten my name.
“Just call me Skye.”
“Skye?”
“Yes, Skye.” I must have sounded like a fool.
“Well, Skye, thank you so much.” He acted like he’d never seen me before, which was hardly the case. Maybe he was really seeing me for the first time. In the wake of that brief meeting I felt a wave of familiarity, of interest pass from him to me. Could he possibly be the one? My entire body tittered at the thought. No. Never. I’d never be that lucky. But what if I was? Impulse made me smile at him like schoolgirl with a crush. Then I tossed my head, and moved away, shaking my ass as I went.
Toward the far side of the office, as far from my corner and cubicle as possible, I found Preston Lockhart still in his office. Lockhart—heir to half the company assets but actually a bit player in the company, considering the disparity in the weight of his name and the job he chose. It wasn’t that he couldn’t fill his deceased daddy’s shoes as an advertising magnet, he simply had other talents more important to the agency. Preston Lockhart—I always thought his name must be a nightmare to live with; and it only added to his aloof and stuffy attitude. He was too impeccable, too perfectly manicured, too seemingly uptight for me to be attracted to him—now that I was suddenly evaluating every man I saw in the office. In his youth, he’d have been the soccer, maybe hockey player… no, on second thought, he probably crewed… for Yale, I think. Yes. It was a Yale diploma hanging on his wall.
If Joel McNary stepped from the pages of GQ, this man stepped out of the past, out of the twenties, out of F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, with the panache of bygone days—maybe why he chose to remain the official company watchdog, the efficiency expert everyone wanted to shoo away. That fact obviously didn’t bother him. He was cold enough to chill ice cubes in May. A sexual master? A sadistic animal? Humph, I shrugged, he was as likely and unlikely as the others I been evaluating since I made my bold excursion into the office.
“Miss Sinclair?” He looked up from the papers in front of his nose.
“Yes,” I answered politely.
“Your first name?” he asked like this was an interview.
“Syke,” I replied.
“You make that up?” He questioned me with an air of suspicion.
“No, I didn’t make that up,” I sounded offended.
He raised his eyebrows critically, and I got the chills.
“You wanted these,” I shoved my last file of papers toward him. I wanted out of there fast, becoming instantly impatient. I’d been quickly reminded of why I didn’t like these people, and had stayed clear of them all this time.
He poured over the documents about copyrights and trade names. Probably important stuff to him, although it was boring to me.
“You’re not finished,” he curtly observed.
“No, but I thought you might want this to start.”
“No, I want the whole thing when it’s done tomorrow,” he handed the file back to me.
