Trust Me to Know You Page 5

  “Really, Gemma, you need to get a life. When was the last time you were laid, hey?” she asked and I blushed with a shrug of my shoulders. The comment sent me scurrying back to my desk and I quickly immersed my head in work.

  The next day I began to feel the deflation. I did not bounce about the office on my sexual high. I said little and focused on my long list of outstanding tasks. My original scenario was correct. I had been his game for the night and he had enjoyed me and moved on. I was not the innocent party though, I had used him to wake up my libido and stoke my neglected fires of lust. It would be wrong to accuse him of leading me astray. He had asked me for a fuck and I had given it to him. We had both had our pleasure zones served and the confidentiality agreement added to the sense of being nothing more than a one-night stand. He may not have his little black book but I suspected he kept mental notches of his conquests on his headboard as an alternative.

  I went out for lunch, as sitting amongst my colleagues was painful as they talked incessantly about boys and dates. I found a side street with a café and ate a panini. The hot melted cheese burnt my mouth and the strong coffee gave me a headache. All around my solitary table were people going about their daily lives and they wove about me as if I was stuck in a time warp. I flicked a crumb across the table and picked up my handbag. There was nothing to do but return to my desk and eke out my wages.

  The third day I went into analytical mode. Somewhere I had displeased him or misinterpreted his intentions. The wrong signals had been picked up and I had played along without thinking it all through. My ridiculous fantasies about being the mistress of a millionaire had clouded my perceptiveness. The realisation that my judgement was to blame upset me as it implied I was never going to find my self-confidence again. I had it so wrong. I thought he liked me. An exception to the rule he had said. That had to amount to something – did it not? Obviously not.

  Jason fucking Lucas, screw you.

  However, deep down, I was despondent and quite depressed by the lack of attention. I resorted at night-time to entertaining myself, keeping alive the memory of the Sunday evening in me as I found release. There was nobody to tell me not to do the indulgent act.

  ***

  I fiddled with the buttons on my landline phone, psyching myself up for the dutiful weekly phone call to my mother. Thursday evening and I was curled up on the settee in my poky lounge. Conversations with my mother were often fraught. She worried, what mother didn’t?

  “You never bring boyfriends home, Gemma!” A frequent comment and often accompanied by the furtive suggestion. “You’re not secretly one of those...”

  I had to hide my embarrassment as I had reassured my mum, yet again, that I was not a lesbian. I did not think she would have cut me off but it would have at least explained the lack of boyfriends.

  “No mother. Absolutely not. I just haven’t met the right guy for me,” I would soothe her on each occasion.

  “Hi, mum,” I spoke softly to her as she greeted me.

  “Oh, Gemma, it’s lovely to hear from you,” she paused. “I was wondering when you would ring. Are you visiting soon? Your dad has been very busy I know, extra shifts, but we really would like to see you.”

  I sighed. Her wish to see me had its origins back when I had not visited them for two months.

  Yes, I did disappear out of circulation for a while, but there was no way I could had ever told her why. What followed was a meandering chat on no particular topic as I guided her away from the idea of a visit. I was sure my face would reveal too much and I needed more time to apply my mask better - mothers were far too perceptive.

  ***

  Friday had arrived and my desk phone rang - an unknown internal number.

  “Gemma Marshall,” I said while typing with one hand, handset wedged under my chin.

  “Miss Marshall. I hope you have had a productive week?”

  Jason Lucas is speaking to me!

  I stopped typing with fingers poised over my keyboard. All my doubts were obliterated in a flash. The go-between of the Personal Assistant was absent, which was a good omen.

  “Uh yes, Mr Lucas, uh very good,” I stumbled over my words, flummoxed. My skin was flushed and warmed by the sound of his voice. I glance nervously around wondering if anyone can hear my conversation. I imagined a big neon sign above my head flashing his name up as if I had won at bingo.

  “I should hope so. My employees should always work hard,” he growled at me.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Where to put myself, was the relationship on or off?

  “It's Friday night and you’re coming to visit.” A statement not an invitation.

  “Sure,” I accepted the request without a moment’s thought and my insides were churning.

  “Bring whatever overnight things you need.” Then he put the phone down. I was nearly ready to come there and then such was my pathetic state!

  The practicalities of getting to his house suddenly dawned on me. He did not want anyone to know I was with him. I wondered if I should ring him back. An email pinged in my inbox and as if to answer my question, he had written instructions for me:

  : 7pm your apartment, be ready.

  I slumped in my seat with relief, problem solved.

  ***

  The Jaguar was there waiting for me as I clambered in the back in my jeans and t-shirt, lightweight jacket over my shoulders. His driver, Martinson, put my messenger bag in the boot for me. Jason was on his way home from work and looked the part in his tailored dark business suit.

  “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.

  I had blushed and examined the grey lino floor, which showed the scuffmarks from the heels of his black patent leather shoes. Later, I found out why they were there. He had leaned forward to kiss my face as I perched on the plastic chair opposite his leather one. “OK? Don't mind if I bolt the door?” I had shaken my head and he came back to stand over me. The kissing had continued, then groping with his fingers down my knickers and then he had retrieved a condom from his top drawer. I did not question the readily available contraception, just grateful he had them handy.

  I had stripped from the waist down and he lowered me on to the leather seat. Legs up and over the high arms, head scrunched into the back of the deep seat, I had realised, belatedly, he used the piece of furniture as his perfect fucking apparatus. His shoe heels had squeaked on the lino as he added further scuffmarks to the collection. Grunting, sweating and his hair flopping over his eyes, I had been squashed and dragged back and forth on the perspiration covered leather until my exposed skin felt raw with the friction and heat. I did not orgasm. I had been uncomfortable and by the time he had filled the condom, my insides were sore too.

  He had helped me redress, offering me tissues and a glass of water. I had fumbled with my words, unsure if he wanted me to thank him. He had simply unbolted his door and combed back his hair, sending me on my way with a gentle swipe of my bottom. After that, I had only visited his room in the busy hours of the day. I had judged him right; he had sought conquests. He did not ask me to join him again and he had barely registered me as we drifted past each other in the long corridors.

  I looked down at my knife and fork resting on my plate. I could not bear to look into Jason’s eyes in case he could read my rambling memories and wanted to know the details of my sordid little past.

  “You gave up a good job to come and work at my company, why?” He was persistent.

  “Good job doesn’t necessary mean an interesting one,” I told him a half-truth.

  “I see,” he said mechanically.

  I did not think he did though. How could he? I had not revealed to him that many of my evenings and weekends were far more interesting than my last job. My past was shrouded and hidden from him. I may have spoken about my employment history and my family but he had not managed to prise open my private life to reveal what lurked behind my façade of apathy.

  There was no discussion about Sunday evening either. No mention of humiliating black books, notches on headboards or sexual needs. The assumption had been made and understood between us, I was there for sex and he did not need to chat me up or ply me with romantic prose to have me in his bed. As if to make the point valid, he spoke up.

  “Well enough chit chat,” said Jason pushing his chair back. “Let’s to bed.”

  ***

  The first night nerves had gone.

  “Strip!”

  Jason was commanding me now, without any please or thank you, and I did not question why he behaved in a rigorous fashion with me. I quickly complied, happy to divest my underwear too and stand naked in front of him.

  “You are one hot babe. Why aren’t the boys lining up to fuck your body I just don’t know,” he said gazing at my body longingly.

  I blushed with pride. I was slender though curvy and my breasts were a good size, plump and rounded. Hair was brunette and mid-length, eyes light green. He looked at the top of my thighs.

  “Um, I prefer it completely smooth down there,” he waved a finger at my pubic hair.

  I blushed crimson, I had let it grow back over the last few months, no need to keep it trim.

  “Oh I will sort it for next time.” I sounded desperate to please. “There will be a next time?” I realised I did not know where we were going with our newly created relationship and I wanted the ambiguity cleared up. I was not going to spend another week filled with doubt. Jason Lucas either wanted to spend time with me or not.

&
nbsp; Jason stood there, while he was still fully clothed, looking at my naked body, with his lips pursed and arms folded across his chest.

  “Well I think I’m going to want to fuck you quite a lot looking like that. So let’s say it is worth you getting well waxed and shaved for me,” he smiled. “Sure, babe, let’s get to it.”

  For a moment, I stared back at him and gave myself the opportunity to absorb him. I liked to have a few seconds to take in the atmosphere, the scenario and what it would entail. I was not one for love at first sight or even the necessity for finding my bedfellow physically attractive. In my extraordinary past, I had been with many men who outwardly did nothing for me on first meeting and then gave me a fantastic time between the sheets. What had attracted me to them was inside them, tucked away and out of sight from the visual range. I could sense it being there though. A magnetic pull reaching out and grabbing me wholly and completely. With Jason, I felt it again. With it came the additional pleasure of finding him physically appealing, but there was that something else about him that was alluring and drawing me toward him.

  An hour later, I was lying panting on the bed and sticky mess between my legs. Crikey, Jason knew his positions too. Folded, bent, astride, standing we had moved about the bed and room as he fucked me. It did not feel like love-making, too frantic and necessary for that word. As he was in the workplace, he was totally in control, constantly stopping and starting so I never reached my climax until he wanted me to come. In a short space of time, he seemed to have become vastly knowledgeable about my sexual profile. Eager, daring, rough and a willing receptacle for his own pleasure.

  His own expertise was incredible. The man knew how to have sex as if he was a walking encyclopaedia. I was used to experienced lovers but they generally stuck to a couple of positions for the duration. We had started with the lovely calm lotus position, him cross-legged and me astride him. The gentle build up did not last long once he knew I was wet and could easily take him. He had moved about me and before I could catch my breath he had scissored me, then rode me cowboy style with my legs pressed together. He had penetrated me shallowly and without difficulty.