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“And he’s loaded which is like the cherry on top of that delicious sundae.” She shrugs at me nonchalantly. “Say what you want, but even a blind man can see that you and Kaan have something simmering underneath all that hate you have for each other. I think if you look past the rock star bullshit, you’ll find that he’s just a normal guy waiting to meet the right type of girl.”
“A good Turkish girl, perhaps.”
“Perhaps, or perhaps he’s looking for adirtyMancunian girl.”
I lean my head back on my chair and study the crown moulding like it’s the most fascinating design feature I’ve ever seen. “You’re wrong.”
“Yes, Meg, I’m wrong, only I don’t think I am.” She claps her hands and pushes herself off my desk. “If you’re really not going to give me any of thedirtydetails about what went down in Pimlico last night, then I guess we should get to work then. You might want to grab a shower downstairs. And something a little more, how can I put this politely, less all night manky, and more ready to conquer the PR world. Hit up the swag wardrobe because the press will have a field day if they catch you looking like a bag lady.”
I glare at my boss’s back as she laughs over her shoulder at me. “And you might want to add a little more concealer to cover that hickey as well.”
She’s not wrong though. I had examined my face at length when I had retreated to the bathroom this morning. My chin was red from Kaan’s stubble, and my lips were plump and swollen, but my eyes were sparkling and, truth be told, I looked rather good. Actually, good doesn’t even begin to describe how I looked; rather I looked like I had been shagged by a rock star and good God, he had done a stellar job of it too… even though I clearly need a concrete truck worth of concealer to cover the hickey on my neck.
The rest of the morning flies by and drags out simultaneously. I am consumed with telephone calls from the media wanting confirmation about my purported relationship with Kaan.
“We’re just good friends that spend time together.”
Boy, I’ve been saying that on repeat!
There was also the all-important email from the senior manager singing praise to Brynn about how she dealt with the ‘Kaan issue’. The senior manager also took the opportunity to remind me to do what I need to do to keep the client happy without breaking office protocol.
So-o-o- don’t screw the client then.
I can definitely kiss my promotion, and my ass, goodbye. I’m already convinced that the entire office is judging me. They all look at me like they know I shagged a rock star, oh, excuse me, our client.
But, oh what a shag it was.
And then there’s the moments when I let my mind wander to last night, and this morning. The things that he did to me, the words that he uttered as he screwed me… filthy,dirtywords… that made me completely lose control. Then there’s that phrase. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” What does that even mean? Does he say that to every conquest? Does he whisper their name over and over as he comes like he did mine this morning? Is that what he did with Blair?
I lick my lips. I can still taste him and smell him on my skin. My eyelids flutter close as I recall his hands, gentle yet merciless, as they spread my thighs, his breath warm between my legs, his tongue firm and probing, nudging me closer, his impressive penis filling me, his utter possession of me with such a force, until I screamed his name.
What the fuck is happening to me?
My moratorium on penis’s… and men… has been well and truly tossed aside.
By noon, I admit I’m starting to freak out, but a message from Courtney telling me that she and Nate are at the pub across the street, has me racing towards the elevator in the hope of finding a little solace in my friends.
I use the few precious moments alone in the elevator to calm myself down.
I look down at my outfit. Thank the heavens for Brynn’s suggestion to shower and raid the swag wardrobe this morning. More like a swag room, it’s filled with racks of clothing, shoes, perfumes and makeup, and just about anything else you could possibly want, need or even desire. I once saw a hover board in there, but it had been pilfered by the end of the day! I just know one of my workmates hoover around their home while they mop their floor. It’s genius really because there’s no chance of leaving footprints.
I found an oversized black men’s black blazer that looked totally cute over the rainbow striped t-shirt I had pulled from my wardrobe this morning. Then rummaging through a sample box, I had found a pair of floral print pants that for some crazy reason fitted me perfectly (usually my 5’2 lets me down with pant legs). Finally, I grabbed a pair of spikey heels that brought the whole outfit together. Simple. Sophisticated. Less post-coitus catwalk, and more office attire… or maybe press frenzy… ready.
It’s a good thing I changed as well because as I cross the foyer, Simon helpfully calls out to me, “You should know there are a bunch of photographers outside.”
And it begins.
The English press can be ruthless, I mean, just look at what happened to Princess Diana… or even Meghan Markle for that matter! And while there might be a friendly smile or two out there, it’s more likely that they will rip me to shreds because I’m the other woman in the whole Blair / Kaan debacle.
I’ve got this.
I take a deep breath and plaster the brightest smile I can muster on my face. “Perfect.”
Stepping outside the cameras start flashing and I freeze. “Meg! Meg! Tell us about you and Kaan!”
“This way, Meg!”
“Smile, honey.”
