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“I know that you’re joking, but I think we want to be thinking in that direction,” Carol warns me, pursing her red lips. “Especially if we want this new line of equipment to be accessible to a broader market. We have to consider the tone. And we need more people in marketing to launch this new phase.”
“We’ll hire,” I say. “That’s not an issue.”
“Young people,” Carol emphasizes. “Fresh people. People who can interpret that kind of feedback, refine it, and translate it. We’re already conducting interviews, but we need the right kind of people.”
“I hear you.” And I do. I value Carol’s insights, even if she can be overbearing. It’s all part of the success of my company.
She runs me through some more facts and figures, but I already have everything I need from her. Today is too busy—every minute of my calendar is taken up by something—and as Carol leaves, she passes Beth, my secretary, rushing in and fairly bristling with papers.
“These just came in,” Beth says breathlessly, plopping a bunch of folders on my desk.
I’m about to snark about the digital age and saving the rainforests by sending a goddamn email instead, but then something hits my nostrils, distracting me.
A scent. Something I haven’t thought of for a long time.
The perfumed memory of the hottest fucking night of my life.
San Francisco. A year ago. A woman I called Sara. No, that wasn’t her name. Just like my name isn’t Dominic. But for a little while, we pretended. We played a game with each other… a game that lasted all night.
“Mr. Wright?”
I must be staring into nothing, but I’m still stunned. Things have been so brutally busy with Dynasty that I haven’t been able to take much time for myself, and a simple scent drove me all the way back there, shoving me back into the memory so viscerally that it’s as if the past year didn’t happen at all.
My cock is fucking hard. I’m thankful for the desk, which hides my erection straining against my pants.
“Thanks for this,” I say, waving my hand over the reams of paper Beth has dropped. “Is that a new perfume?”
Her eyes open wide in surprise at my question, and then she giggles softly before wrapping her arms around herself. “Yes. Do you like it?”
“It’s… powerful,” I say, keeping my answer vague so she doesn’t get ahead of herself.
‘Powerful’ can mean a lot of things. In this case, the scent of whatever perfume that is was powerful enough to make me lose my train of thought on what should be one of the most important days of my working life. Powerful enough to catapult me into sporting a raging hard-on at work just because of a memory.
But ‘powerful’ could also mean overpowering, as in Beth applying too much perfume for the workplace.
Her eyes dart back and forth, and I can tell she’s not sure whether I’ve doled out a compliment or a veiled rebuke. I value Beth’s work ethic and loyalty—she wouldn’t be employed here otherwise—but I haven’t missed the little things she does to try to get my attention, or the way she flushes sometimes when our gazes meet.
I don’t fuck where I work, no matter how tempting. And Beth doesn’t tempt me at all. There’s nothing wrong with her petite frame, or the care she takes in fixing her ash blonde hair every day, or in applying just the right amount of makeup around her brown eyes.
She’s not my type, plain and simple. I like women I can grab… like Sara. God, I can still remember the curve of her hip beneath the palm of my hand. How her tits bounced no matter what position we were in. We tried so many, and each one was better than the last.
Fuck. I can’t stop thinking about it. About her. A whole year, and I’m reduced to hiding my boner like a fourteen year old boy by a simple but intoxicating scent.
“What’s the name of it?” I demand, growing more irritated by the second as Beth stays planted in front of me “The perfume?”
“Oh. It’s called Desire,” she stammers. “From that model’s line. Not the new line. One of the first scents she released. I’m blanking on the name. Sorry.”
But I know which one she means. And of course the perfume is called Desire. At least I know the name of what ails me. Then all I need to do to exorcise this demon is buy a bottle and have the next woman I fuck douse herself in it beforehand.
Could it really be that simple to forget about my mystery one-night stand? I’m sure the answer is no, but I’m painfully hard, and desperate enough to try it.
“Mr. Wright, is everything okay?”
“Fine.” I have to force myself to bring Beth’s face into focus. “Was there anything else?”
“No. That was it.” She stares for a moment at the reports she’s just delivered as if they are in some way to blame for this entire interaction, before leaving.
The moment the door to my office closes, I palm my cock through my pants. I just need a little relief. Something to take the edge off.
