Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, .
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Never date anyone from work, or should you?
It was a busy Monday morning, and the long line of weary faces at Costa proved the point. Aidan waited patiently, going through his emails on his Blackberry as he stood in line. Realizing that the queue was being held up longer than usual, he looked up from his phone to see a blonde woman in a suit, sheepishly rummaging through her bag for some loose change.
"I'm so sorry, I'm sure I have it in here somewhere."
The cashier rolled his eyes, contempt written all over his face, and tapped his foot impatiently as the flustered woman struggled to find the cash for her morning coffee. Irked at the nonchalance of others, Aidan was reaching for his wallet to help out when the brunette in front of him beat him to it and kindly proffered the necessary quarter. The blonde woman thanked her, grateful at the simple gesture of kindness, and he watched the brunette laugh off the situation with a friendly grin. That's when he noticed that she was very pretty.
She had the clean, sharp features that were so popular with high street models these days: deep set eyes, defined brows and a perfect nose. But while the models were dead set on looking bored, glum and just plain cool, her face carried a smile with such ease. He would've kept looking, but his phone buzzed angrily with a new email, and after shooting back a quick reply, he looked up and she was gone.
By 11 in the morning his temples were throbbing. The draft of papers needed for the Heyland acquisition were a mess, littered with poorly crafted clauses and overtly gimmicky language – but worse still, he was in one of his moods. Clicking about revealed the criminal who authored the offending document – a certain Gwyneth Kenner. He'd had a bad morning, and wanted to defuse, so he picked up the phone on the desk and punched 0. "Lucy, please send me – Gwyneth Kenner. Thank you." Scrolling through the document revealed a progressively expanding mass of absolute gibberish, punctuated by the timely knock on the door. "Come in." And that's when she stepped in.
This was Gwyneth Kenner? The brunette from coffee this morning? She stood in front of him, her hands placed awkwardly behind her back, as she greeted him hesitantly. He was surprised, but it passed in a heartbeat – the blood pounding in his head a reminder of the ghastly document on his computer.
"Right, Ms. Kenner. I have here a copy of your work for the Heyland file, and I just want to know what the fuck you're trying to do over here, because for the life of me, I don't see a reason for you to still be on this team." His voice sounded like bullets being fired out of a gun.
Shock rippled through her pretty face, although she remained composed, and quickly became puzzled. "But..." she paused " ... but I'm not on the Heyland file. I'm with the Brooks and Whitmore merger, and have absolutely nothing to do with the Heyland account."
"So would you mind telling me why your name is on this document?" he swiveled the screen to face her. Bewildered, her eyes scanned through the document, widening at what she saw, her frown deepening as she went along.
"This ... isn't my work." she scrolled through rapidly "I've written this part before. Months ago. This was for the RBS fund project – but - how -"
She was clearly at a loss for words. Aidan leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. "Of course. Plagiarized document. And the birdbrain who did this didn't have the brains to fucking change the author's name on the document," he punched at the phone again. "Lucy, who is updating me on the Heyland file? Gavin Cross. I see. Thank you." He hung up. Gwyneth closed her eyes. Of course it was Gavin. Scheming little bastard. Pretty boy could never get anything done right, and trust him to have leeched a file off her computer when she wasn't looking. She rolled her eyes and breathed sharply, unwilling to face the man behind the desk. The atmosphere in the room couldn't get any more awkward as she stood there, feeling wrong footed – like a child being chastised in the principal's office on mistaken grounds.
He broke the silence. "Well, I'm terribly sorry about that," he said, in a much warmer tone. "It was very rude of me, and I take full responsibility – and I'm sure the original work was well worth copying." He gave a wry smile. She half-smiled in return, too terrified to reply, and hastily excused herself from the office.
Holy hell. Aidan Scodelario was every bit as intimidating as she'd heard about. The prized son of the firm's founding family – educated at both Oxford and Yale, he had a reputation for being one of the brightest minds in the legal field. His summer internship at Bear Sterns rocketed him to fame, even though he was all but nineteen of age - and as he sat for his final exams, he was already consulting major banks on the finer points of floating stock trades and investment bonds. But that wasn't all about him. 'Demanding' was the word most commonly used to describe him – having been around the brightest minds since his school years, he expected no less from the people he worked with, and the icy glare he gave so freely earned him the office nickname Berg – short for iceberg.
Being alone in the same room as him for the first time, and being so coldly interrogated by him allowed her to understand why he was so terrifying. He had inherited his father's ice blue eyes, a blue so pale they were almost crystal, accentuated by his uncharacteristically high cheekbones and a strong, angular jaw. Seeing that face clenched taut in anger had scared her into a stuttering, stumbling mess, something completely unlike her real self, and she had to admit that he was a force to be reckoned with, beyond the office myth.
She staggered back to her desk, still shaken by the experience. "Oooh," Dylan Foreman, who sat in the desk opposite hers, leaned forward eagerly, "What'd he say to you?"
"He thought I did the Heyland forms and asked me what the fuck I thought I was doing. And believe it or not, I think that was his opening sentence to me."
"Whoa, that's pretty brutal," he nodded, making a sturgeon face. "But wait, you're-"
"Yup. Told him that, and get this – Gavin took my agreement for the RBS deal last year and worked his magic on it, " she paused for effect "then submitted it to the berg." Dylan's face lit up in a grin of disbelief.
"No way!" he chuckled "Well it could've been worse," he offered, trying to console her.
"Trust me, it was bad enough on its own. The man's a living nightmare. I mean, would it kill him to not be so intimidating every once in a while?"
"Oh come on, he's not that bad."
"Oh, really? How about you go into his office and help me get some files I need? I mean, since you're not scared of him at all..."
"Not a chance in hell. You know, I'm pretty sure if anyone was going to be Batman, he would be. He seems just like the type who roams the night as a vigilante, beating bad people with high tech gadgets..." he made punching motions in the air. "Just sayin'."
"So ... you're saying that I just got yelled at by Batman?"
"And how is any of this relevant to anything?"
"It's not," he said innocently, taking a sip of his coffee as he did so "just voicing out a cool point."
"You're a poster child for ADHD, you know? Sometimes I wish there was a way I could take a look into that psychedelic little head of yours."
"This psychedelic head," he tapped at his temple, "memorizes Tolstoy verbatim. And kicks your ass at Call of Duty. Is that the green-eyed monster I smell? Bam!"
She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to her laptop. For all his idiosyncrasies, Dylan was one of her closest friends. They'd met in law school, where they discovered that they both grew up in the same neighborhood, and have been best friends ever since. Upon graduation, they both applied to Lynch, Scodelario and Ackham – one of the largest law firms in the country – and negotiated their way into being seated beside each other in the office. Through the many years of their friendship, everyone they met commented on how cute they were together – but the friendship never progressed beyond a purely platonic one, and it became apparent that it would be that way forever.
Thursday afternoon was sluggish – she was waiting, with increasing agitation, for an email that was supposed to have been sent an hour ago – and she wasn't feeling too productive. Utterly bored, she decided to browse through one of her favorite websites, the one for a nearby art gallery, and a notice for an upcoming exhibition caught her eye. Excited, she began clicking and scrolling through the multitude of photos on the site, until she had a feeling that she was being watched. She looked up at Dylan, who looked back at her with wide, unblinking eyes.
"What's up?" Gwyneth asked.
"The Miyami collection, apparently," a deep British male voice answered.
She spun around in panic to find Aidan standing behind her, hands in pockets, staring at her with a blank expression. She quickly closed all windows, heart pounding through her chest and fear running thick through her veins. "I'm very sorry," she said coolly, "and I promise it won't happen again, sir."
"I wouldn't worry about it," he remarked with a trace of amusement in his voice as he walked away. "Carry on." After he left, Dylan drew a line across his neck with his finger, making slicing noises as he did so. Gwyneth pulled a face at his gesture, before flipping him the bird and burying her face in her hands. What a day, she groaned, pinching her nose bridge. As if to taunt her, the computer beeped brightly. "New E-Mail Message Received."
She glared at the screen. "You have got to be kidding me."
A few hours later, she was typing furiously, pausing only to take deep gulps of coffee when Dylan popped by her desk. "How's work?" She sighed, leaned back and stretched her hands, popping her knuckles as she did so. "Killer. What about you?" He shook his head, his long curly hair tumbling back and forth.
"Such a fuckup. Dinner soon?"
She blew out a deep breath and thumbed through a thick stack of papers. "Apparently, meals will have to be a luxury I cannot afford," shrugging her shoulders, "but you have fun. Get something in you, you look beat."
Out of habit, he ruffled her hair as he was leaving. "I'll buy you a sandwich or something. I know, I know, whole grain, no tomatoes, extra mayo. And oh," he turned to face her while walking backwards "the berg wants to see you in his office." He held up his hands and raised his eyebrows to indicate I-don't-know-why, and rushed off before she could question him.
Staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, she re-tied her straight hair into a fresh ponytail and tugged at her shirt in an attempt to make herself look more presentable. She could feel her insides sinking already, dreading every step to the door of his office, towards an almost certain doom.
He was engrossed in his work when she rapped on the door.
She shuffled in awkwardly, the tension visible in her gait. "You wanted to see me?"
Aidan looked up, and his face brightening as he saw her. "Ah, Ms. Kenner," his voice was friendly, a stark contrast to their prior meeting. "Please, have a seat." She settled into one of the plush chairs opposite his, unnerved by the sudden warmth in his demeanor.
"I'm sorry if I'm keeping you at work, and this shouldn't take a minute – are you in a hurry?" She shook her head no. "I see. Well," he leaned forward, crystal eyes meeting hers -
"I just wanted to apologize, personally, for the misunderstanding that day in regards to the Heyland file. It's been a while since the incident, and my tardy apology in itself makes it a double faux pas. I hope that it will not color your opinion of me." He gave a small, cynical laugh. "Unless, of course, it's already too late. In any case, I'm sorry, Ms. Kenner." He was apologizing about that? Talk about awkward situations with your boss.
"Please, call me Gwyneth."
"Right. Gwyneth." The smile on his face was surprisingly infectious, and Gwyneth felt the corner of her lips lifting. "I'm sorry about my behavior the other day."
She could feel herself blushing. "Mr. Scodelario, it was nothing, really –"
"Please, call me Aidan."
She hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. "Um, Aidan," the name rolled off her tongue experimentally "I fully understand that it was just a case of mistaken identity, and while the apology is a nice thought, I'm afraid there isn't much to be sorry for."
Her stomach clenched as the words tumbled out of her mouth. Why was she drawing out a painfully awkward situation, arguing with a polite apology from her boss? Stupid, stupid, stupid – she wished desperately for an excuse to leave, any reason at all.
"Well," his voice was all businesslike and formal now "if so, then, please take this as a small token of good will." He held up an envelope made of stiff, creamy paper.
She gingerly took it from his hands and opened it to reveal two tickets to the Miyami art exhibition. She was floored, all the wind knocked out of her stomach, too stunned to react at first, but she quickly stuffed it back into the envelope and gave it back to him. "I ... I can't, Mr. Scodelario. Thank you, thank you very much, but I ... this is too much."
He frowned and shook his head. "No, I insist – it's an excellent collection, and you simply cannot miss it."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he interrupted her before she could say anything.
"Look, they're just tickets. Haruka Miyami is one of the pioneers in Neo-Dadaism, and to have his works circle Ameringer Yohe is an absolute rarity - so here's my advice, from an art aficionado to another – take the tickets. Enjoy the exhibition. Don't just see it from a computer screen." She grimaced at the mention of the incident, but his voice was gentle and persuasive. "Experience it in real life. Don't make it harder than necessary. Just take them."
He held them out again, eyebrows raised, and she couldn't find it in herself to say no, so she reluctantly reached out to take the envelope. "Thank you very much, Mr. Scodelario," "Ah," he pulled the envelope away slightly. "It's Aidan. Mr. Scodelario is my father, so that name can wait till I'm all wrinkled and gray." She smiled sheepishly, and continued to thank him profusely.
As she munched on her sandwich, finishing up with the day's work, she couldn't stop glancing at the envelope tacked to her board, constantly thinking about how odd the circumstances were. But by the time she gathered her jacket and beeped her car open, her spirits were at an all time high and she was looking forward to attending the event.
Aidan had just finished talking to an old acquaintance from Harvard when he spotted her. She was admiring a painting, hands behind her back with her head cocked to one side and he stopped to admire her for a bit. Her outfit was effortlessly stylish – black jeans, pale ecru shirt and a dove gray blazer with black lapels, finished off with pointy black pumps. She was clearly dressed for off duty, her makeup heavier than usual and her hair let loose.
The spotlights glowed warmly on her hair, making it look glossier than ever. She had a waif-like stature, so delicate and slender he wondered if she would break at the slightest touch. Yet there was a certain coolness in her eyes, a kind of easy grace with which she moved - perhaps she was a dancer? Her hand moved up to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind her ear and his stomach clenched a little. There was something in the way she'd done it that made it seem so sexy - with any other woman, it would've looked like more like vain preening, but she made it seem so casual and relaxed. So natural. In that moment, he ached to try it for himself - to stand in front of her and brush on that part of her skin with gentle fingers.
Gwyneth was lost in her thoughts, marveling at the colored canvas in front of her until he approached her.
"Gwyneth," he said, smiling warmly "glad you could make it."
"Aidan, how nice to see you," she shook his hand. "Thanks again for inviting me. It's been an incredible experience." He could see the excitement in her eyes, her face more effervescent than he'd seen at the office, simple joy bubbling off her skin in a pleasant aura. They both turned to face the painting.
"Miracle 253," he quipped. "One of my favorites ever."
She smiled as she nodded. "Mine too. There's just something about this that's so..." she gestured while deciding on a word " ... magnetic. That's it. Magnetic. It's not just the brushwork, or the colors, or the vision. Can't quite put my finger on it, but I can't stop looking at it either."
He looked at her with a blank expression. "I just like it for the colors. Blue, gray, black. Very pretty." He said wryly. She stifled a giggle and hid her smile behind her hand. "So, can I offer you the Aidan Scodelario tour of the place? No drab facts about realism and the deconstruction of society through the paradigm of colors at all that jazz. I'll just point out the ones I find aesthetically pleasing." She was laughing out loud now, relaxed by the easy smile on his face. He could be charming when he wanted to, and he clearly had a sense of humor.
"That would be very helpful, thank you."
As they ambled slowly through the brightly lit gallery, their chatter livened as they went along. They clearly had plenty in common – similar interests, hobbies and opinions – and in no time, they were talking like old friends. She was surprised at the ease at which they conversed, and how comfortable she felt with him, considering that just a few days ago he had so sternly rebuked her in icy tones, but he was a different person tonight. Here and now, he wasn't her superior, not her boss, not the berg, but a friendly new acquaintance she was becoming fast friends with.
"Is this your first time here?" he asked, handing her a glass of prosecco.
"I've been here once before - the Barnett Newman exhibition in July?"
"Ah," he nodded in understanding. "I've heard a lot about that one. I was very keen on securing one of his pieces, but they withdrew it from sale at the last minute."
She gave him a sympathetic look. "That's a shame. It would've been such a darling to own."
"Oh well," he shrugged his shoulders. "You know what they say. If you can't get a Newman, settle for Robert Motherwell."
"Or if you're really that desperate, just frame up a blank canvas and tell people it's an Ulzaria."
He threw his head back in laughter. God, she didn't think that he ever laughed out loud like that. "Don't let Simmons hear you," he lowered his voice and pointed at the elderly gentleman a few feet away. "He'll have you burned at the stake for blasphemy."
She stifled a giggle. "Look, you're free to judge me for what I'm about to say - I love art, and I do consider myself to be quite open-minded, but there are some pieces that make me question my ability to be pretentious. Abstract? Sure. But sometimes it's just plain crap. Even if it's neo-destructionalism meets cubist utopia, or whatever you want to call it."
His nose twitched as he tried to stay deadpan. "The appropriate response would be to politely agree with you, stick to my guns and defend the creative young minds that strive to push the boundaries of expression in art." He tugged at his earlobe and leaned closer.
"But I find that I must admit - you're absolutely right. There was this exhibit I went to - and I'm being absolutely serious here - which consisted entirely of plastic phalluses painted in a myriad of colors. I'm no prude, but words cannot begin to describe how uncomfortable I was."
"You're missing the point," Gwyneth feigned a businesslike air, a playful smile twitching at her lips. "It's about the amorphous male form and the ambiguity that enslaves us all."
"Quite right, quite right," he agreed, nodding seriously. "Thanks for the tip. Otherwise, I would've been boggled."
"No sweat. Sometimes, one needs to step out of the circle to see that it is round," she added sagely.
"You're just making it up as you go along, aren't you?" She could see his eyes dancing in amusement.
"Alright, you caught me," she shrugged in good humor. "It was worth a try. I'd like to think that I'm good at fobbing my way through these things."
"You're doing an excellent job." He lifted his glass to clink with hers. "A master of disguise, a chameleon of sorts. Very impressive."
"Thanks," she hid a smile by taking a sip of her drink. Her eyes fell on a familiar face nearby and she blinked in mild astonishment. "Is that Michiko Kakutani?"
He turned to look in the direction where her eyes were indicating. "Yeah, that is," he looked back at her. "Would you like to say hi?"
"You know her personally?" she gaped in admiration.
He leaned forward with a confidential air, a twinkle in his eye. "Welcome to my world," he murmured.
Aidan couldn't help but admire her. She was very bright, very well read and keen with just the right proportion of earthiness. Despite her brains, she was neither pretentious nor snobby, and was capable of self-deprecating jokes on several occasions. As pretty as she was, she was so much more fun, so easy to talk to and the chemistry between them was palpable.
He was the picture of charm that night, politely introducing her to everyone who bumped into them as his colleague and never leaving her alone in a new social group. It was a stellar night, one that she would remember for life – filled with art, endless glasses of prosecco and meeting people she'd only read about and heard of. They drifted from circle to circle until the crowd trickled to a handful and she felt her stomach churning, demanding to be fed.
"Well," she looked at him, not really wanting to say goodbye, "I guess I'll be off now. Thanks again, for the tickets. It's been a wonderful night."
"Don't mention it. Besides, you've been such great company tonight. Thanks for sticking around with the old berg." Her eyes widened at the mentioned of the name, but his lips curved into a small smile and she just stared at her heels, feeling sheepish.
"Alright then, I –"
"Actually, I was wondering if you'd like some dinner? If you don't already have plans, of course."
She only hesitated for a heartbeat before saying yes.
As she looked through the menu at Asakuma, she could barely believe the prices she saw. This was a place well out of her budget range, and the prices of a few dishes easily surpassed the cost of a week's meals for her. Her eyes widened as she noticed that the restaurant offered otoro - premium tuna belly - one of her favorite dishes in the whole world. Holy cow, was that how much they charged for a serving? She stared blankly at the menu, a little daunted by the sheer expensiveness of it all. As much as she loved otoro, there was no way in the world she was going to -
"Should we go somewhere else? Japanese isn't exactly everyone's favorite food." He sounded concerned - he must have noticed her discomfort and interpreted it wrongly.
"No, no, not at all," she reassured him. "I love Japanese. The place looks great, by the way."
"I hope you'll like it as much as I do. Have you decided what you want?"
"I think I'll have the-"
Before she could finish her sentence, she heard it. A familiar voice, calling out her name in a foreign language ... she scanned the room for the source and found it. Her distant aunt, clad in a chic black sheath and pearls was making a beeline towards her with outstretched arms. Not wanting to be rude, she stood up and greeted her with a hug "Gwyneth! It's been so long since I last saw you!"
Aidan watched in silent fascination as Gwyneth Kenner began conversing with an elderly Asian woman in fluent Japanese. From the looks of it, she was a family member, an aunt perhaps. He watched carefully as the tone of her voice transformed to bend with the smooth syllables of the Japanese language.
She spoke Japanese in a different voice – one that was more gentle, feminine and subdued. Even though they talked at a rapid pace, the words flowed so elegantly, spilling out with the effortless ease of a native speaker. He continued to watch Gwyneth as they began to bid each other goodbye and hugged again, fixing her with an unwavering gaze as she settled back into her chair.
Aidan leaned back, looking very amused. "I think I've been hustled."
She shook her head in mild embarrassment. "It's nothing. I'm part Japanese, and everyone in my family is fluent."
"And here I am, bringing you to a Japanese restaurant. You probably know much more than I do about the culture and cuisine than I do."
"I wouldn't say that," she added kindly.
He snapped his menu shut and placed it on the table. "Let's do this – you call the shots for tonight and show me what being Japanese is like. How it's really done. Sounds good?"
A twinkle lit up her eyes. "A chance to boss around Aidan Scodelario, wow. You're plenty generous." She leaned forward, eager and playful. "Are you familiar with sake?"
The meal seemed to go on all night. The food was delicious, and the sake was getting to their heads, but they kept talking and talking and talking, the atmosphere becoming increasingly lighter as the night went on.
"Which law school did you attend?"
She cocked her head to one side, feeling coy. "Let's make this a little more challenging. How about you guess which law school I graduated from?" She bit her lip and smiled. "Do I exude Yale snobbery? Or UChicago's earthiness? Perhaps Duke's party maniac aura?" She ran her finger around the edge of her glass. "You're smart, you should be able to figure this out. Three guesses."
Interest sufficiently piqued, he leaned forward to scrutinize her better. "You're not from Yale," he said confidently, fixing her eyes on his. "I would've known if you were."
"Oh? What makes you so sure?"
"My alma mater. I make it a point to stay updated." He tapped his nose knowingly. "Do your homework next time, Ms. Kenner. How disappointing."
"Ah, well - my bad," she conceded. "So I'm not from Yale. Anything else you've gleaned so far?"
"Bits and pieces, but it's grossly insufficient. Here's what I'm proposing - I'll ask you three questions and that's it - after that's done, I'll make my three guesses. Nothing pertaining to details about your academics, I promise. Just to allow a little insight into your profile, that's all. Does that sound fair?"
She mulled it over for a moment. "Deal," she nodded with a growing smile on her face. "But only if you answer the questions as well - I'd like a little quid pro quo from all this."
There was no disguising the amusement on his face. "Fair enough, I accept your conditions. You're not an easy bargain, lady."
"Isn't that why I got a job at LSA? You should see me negotiating privity clauses on refinancing contracts." She grinned. "Well then, let the questions begin."
His eyes flashed in enthusiasm. "Alright, here we go. First up: three favorite bands?"
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "I'm going to go with ... Radiohead, The Rolling Stones and The Velvet Underground."
"Oh, honey, you're perfection in a bundle." The words sounded wry but there was a look of mischief on his face. "Such an eclectic mix of alternative and classic rock. I'm guessing Led Zeppelin almost made the cut?"
She clapped a hand over her heart. "Jimmy Page restores my faith in humanity," she intoned dramatically, enticing a warm smile from him. "I suppose you're into similar kinds of music, then?"
"Absolutely. My music library is quite the kaleidoscope, though. Top three would be The Beatles, Nine Inch Nails and The Smashing Pumpkins. Radiohead would've been my fourth - it's a very close call."
"Well," she raised her glass of sake. "To Thom Yorke and his sheer brilliance. My youth would have been very different if it weren't for him."
"Hear, hear," he clinked his glass with hers. "So, Radiohead and Nine Inch Nails. We were a bunch of happy kids, weren't we?"
"Mm," she shook her head ruefully. "You know what they say about geniuses and angst. Being miserable is a prerequisite to being smart."
"Can't argue with you on that one. Moving on: if you hadn't been a lawyer, what would you have been? Name two possible careers. Just two will do."
She eyed him warily, trying to suppress a smile. "You're trying to psychoanalyze me, aren't you?" She snuffled with laughter and shook her head. "Well you're not going to get to me so easily." She leaned back in her chair and thought about the question for a few seconds. "Microbiologist or photographer, I suppose."
Aidan's eyes widened in surprise and she giggled at his expression. "Microbiologist, photographer and lawyer?" He sounded so stumped, she wanted to burst into riotous laughter. "Highly unusual combination ... very interesting indeed. How did you end up with such varied interests?"
"My family's very diverse," she emphasized on the 'very'. "I had a great childhood - ever since I could talk, mom and dad introduced me to a million and ten hobbies and interests. Grew up as a jack of all trades and master of none, so you can imagine how I agonized on choosing my major in college. God, that was an absolute headache."
"Calligraphy lectures immediately after Biology lab practicals?"
"Almost, but more like Classical Studies tutorials after Chem lab sessions. And then French in the evenings."
"Overachieving curve-wrecker," he retorted.
"That's rich, coming from you," she shot back with a smile. "Your turn."
"Spy," he deadpanned, looking totally serious.
She rolled her eyes and gave him a look. "Oh come on, be serious."
He gave a mock-stern look. "Espionage is no laughing matter, Gwyneth."
"Yes, double O seven, no one's making fun of the spy trade. What I am making fun of is the notion of you being a spy."
"Why? Am I not an ideal candidate for some cold-blooded killing? Can I not coax and charm tightly-guarded secrets out of a Venezuelan vixen?"
She bit back a smile and raised her eyebrows at him. "Says the man who is paying for an answer with an answer. You'd reveal military launch codes before your suspect tells you where Osama is hiding."
"That's what you think," he leaned forward with a glint in his eye. "My final answer is spy, and I'm afraid that you'll just have to work with that." He winked at her. "So, enough with that. Here's my final question: how many languages do you speak? Dialects included."
She frowned in slight confusion. "How many languages? That's a weird question."
He smiled smugly back at her. "Just answer it. We're almost at the denouement now."
He could see her eyes dart to the upper right corner as she tried to make a mental tally of how many languages she spoke. As he expected, she was a polyglot - blessed with one of those minds that picked up languages like sailors picked up diseases. "Seven," she admitted, somehow sounding both pleased and embarrassed at the same time.
"Wow," he was genuinely awed at her answer. Fuck, she was brilliant - and it made her all the more attractive to him. "That is utterly phenomenal. Seriously, Gwyneth - I do hope that you realize how precious a gift that is. I admire that very deeply."
"Thanks," she blushed. "Well don't go throwing any parades now. Besides, I'm not that fluent in all of them. My Spanish is a little worse for the wear." She shrugged. "So, time for you to guess. Oh, I'm looking forward to this." She rubbed her hands in glee.
His face was completely serious save for the tiny curve of his lips. He just stared at her in silence for a few moments, as if he was studying her face for the correct answer. The heat of his gaze made her heart race - there was something about the intensity of his look that thrilled and drew her in, sent her heart hammering in her chest and her lips go dry.
"Columbia." The verdict tumbled out of his lips in a deadpan voice.
Her jaw fell open. "How did you - how? Is it really that obvious?"
"I just know these things," he answered vaguely, a smug smile on his face.
She shook her head in disbelief. "No. No, no. There has to be - oh, I know. You have my employment records, don't you? You must have pulled it from HR. And here I thought..." she rolled her eyes.
The grin on his face told her everything she needed to know. He didn't say a thing in response and only shrugged nonchalantly.
"You sneak. Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself now - it was a lot more impressive when I thought you could tell which law school I was from just from those three questions."
"Oh, believe me, I can."
"I highly doubt that." She smirked in return.
The smug smile on her face disappeared when she saw that his gaze was fixed on her and for a moment, she felt like she was totally naked in front of him. He was looking at her with an intensity that made her wonder if he could look past every single layer and observe her true nature in a blink. "Believe what you want, Gwyneth, but you know I would have made an excellent spy," his voice was low and silky with intent. For a moment they just looked at each other in silence, as beheld my some magical, unseen force that had them spellbound.
"So," Aidan broke the reverie, the easy warmth returning to his voice as they snapped back to their senses, "what is the usual Japanese desert?" He took a sip of sake.
"Well the norm would be daifuku, maybe a jelly, but here's the thing," she twirled a loop of hair around her finger "dessert isn't really a Japanese habit."
He nodded in understanding, never taking his eyes off hers. The lively chatter was quieting down now, and a waiter began to clear their table.
"Right," he said, breaking the silence. "Perhaps we should be leaving now."
He got up on his feet and offered her his hand, and pulled her up from the chair. As they walked out, hands still locked together, she could feel her heart throbbing, her heartbeat escalating at the contact, his skin deliciously warm and dry on hers. Outside, he fished out his phone and called for a car, and then turned to face her.
"So ... thanks for dinner," her voice sounded so small. "I ... I had a great time."
"So did I." He reached for her other hand. "I had a really good time."
She couldn't believe this. Here she was, by a street, holding hands with Aidan Scodelario like a teenage girl on her first date. Her better judgment was compelling her to leave immediately before she risked doing anything stupid with her employer, but she couldn't peel her hands away from his. Couldn't refuse his serious gaze as he looked at her intently. As he reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear, she didn't move away, instead she leaned into his hand, craving his touch. And that's when he leaned in and kissed her, placing his lips firmly over hers, his other arm snaking around her waist to pull her close.
Alarms were beginning to sound in her head, warning her about the dangers of getting into things with Aidan, especially considering how influential he was at work. But as the kiss deepened, she found herself powerless to fight it, kissing him back with abandon, her conscious worries gradually fading into nothing more than a mere whisper. His mouth was warm and gentle on hers, and as his lips parted hers she felt her breath catch in her throat. She curled an arm around his neck, pulling him in for a final press on the lips before she let go and pulled away. His pale eyes were fixed on hers, traces of lust evident in his irises. The voice of reason, however, found the upper hand.
"I ... I'm sorry. I can't do this," she stammered, her voice weak. "We work together, and you're my superior, and I just ... I-"
He exhaled sharply. "I understand," he agreed in civil tones. "You're probably right."
The car pulled up a few feet away from them and Aidan turned to move towards it. Gwyneth felt the unease fizz inside her, expanding into a mounting load that she could no longer suppress. Her head felt strangely floaty, an odd mix of hazy bliss and bold courage thanks to the copious amount of alcohol she'd downed.
"Or maybe..." she spluttered, surprised at the sound of her own voice saying those words. Aidan looked back at her quizzically. Where was this courage coming from? Was she really going to do this?
" ... Or maybe, if we could ... I don't know, keep it physical. Purely physical. No strings attached. Just two people doing that thing that adults do." She was appalled at what she was saying, completely taken aback at the thought that she herself was suggesting this to her boss. Aidan stood there silently, just staring at her strangely.
There was a tightness in her chest that made it hard for her to breathe, the tension of the moment suffocating and oppressive. She felt completely wrong-footed, angry with herself for being this tipsy in front of Aidan. This was it. She'd completely jeopardized her career and her professional image over a few drinks and a nice dinner with a man. She closed her eyes, wanting to pretend that it was all a dream.
But as she opened them again, she saw him walking towards her, his lips pressed tightly into a wry smile, and suddenly she was in his arms, wrapped tightly in an embrace while his lips found hers, capturing her in another of his unworldly kisses. This time, however, he was more confident, lacking the vacillation of the previous kiss, and as his tongue found its way to hers, her hands were in his hair, tugging at it with small, urgent fists. For what seemed like an eternity, they were locked together with abandon. Finally he pulled away, his eyes darkening with pleasure. "My place?" he asked gruffly. She nodded wordlessly as he seized her hand and helped her into the car.
As the car pulled out into the nighttime traffic, Aidan twisted in his seat to face her, his face almost hidden by the dim light. He leaned in close to whisper something and she could smell the faintest trace of an expensive aftershave, the scent shooting thrills of pleasure up her spine as he murmured into her ear.
Instinctively she placed her hands innocently on his thighs, her heartbeat racing at the thought of seeing him take them off. Throughout the car ride, he kept the physical contact to a minimum -- she wondered if it was all part of a deliberate ploy, or just his methods of remaining discreet -- all he did was hold her hand, tracing lazy circles on her skin with his thumb, gazing intently at her the whole time.
They arrived at his place soon enough, and as she stepped out of the car, Gwyneth looked up at the luxurious building and felt the buzz in her head kick up a notch. A gloved doorman pushed open a heavy glass door and Aidan gave him a brief nod as they walked past, striding briskly into the gleaming lobby.
When the elevator doors closed, allowing them some much-deserved privacy, Aidan was set in motion. He pressed her firmly against the walls of the elevator to kiss her, his tongue gently parting her lips as she softly moaned into his mouth. Her hands reached under his jacket, feeling the ridges of muscle beneath his shirt as she slowly moved towards his belt. She broke the kiss to look into his eyes, catching a hint of playfulness in his gaze as she did so, before kissing him again, but gently this time, with just the softest brushes of lips as she let her fingers flutter on the bulge over his zipper.
The elevator pinged open, and they reluctantly pulled apart, fingers still entwined. He moved behind her to help take off her blazer, planting a few feathery kisses on the nape of her neck as he pulled the jacket off her back. She spun around and pressed her body against his, grinding her hips against his to feel the evidence of his arousal.
He growled as he shrugged off his own jacket, letting it fall to the floor and then wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, allowing his hands to slowly travel down to cup her bottom, pulling her even closer for a passionate kiss. He could feel her fingers adroitly working on his belt buckle, carefully avoiding contact with his raging erection, and she was about to unbutton his slacks when he stopped her and abruptly pulled away.
Aidan smiled devilishly as he beckoned for her to follow him, taking her hand as he did so. He led her into a dark bedroom, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming in through a large window and shut the door behind them. She stood a few inches away from him, looking up at him expectantly.
"Hi." His voice was deadpan and gravelly.
"Hello there." She bit her lip to keep herself from smiling.
Slowly he dipped his head, pausing to hover millimeters away from hers, so close that she could feel his warm breath on her skin. Her entire body was throbbing, aching to be touched -- she felt like she was on fire. He kissed her again, this time expertly manipulating her tongue with his, and she felt like the world had disappeared and that time had ceased to move.
Aidan took her lower lip into his mouth and sucked on it firmly, as she began to realize that he had unbuttoned her shirt and was pushing it off her shoulders. Gwyneth stood there in her bra, panting, acutely aware of the pulsating ache in her hard nipples. She wanted, more than anything, for him to touch her breasts, for him to kiss them they way he kissed her, but he made no indication of doing so.
Her hands were trembling with excitement as she pulled down his zipper and cupped the bulge in his boxers, making him growl as she tugged his slacks off his hips. She slipped a hand beneath his boxers and closed her hands over his hard member, making him groan through clenched teeth. Soon his hands joined hers and they pushed his underwear off.
Lust was boiling inside her, as was frustration -- he had barely done more than kiss her all night, and it was driving her insane. Feeling determined, she stepped back and began to remove her jeans sensually, swaying her hips left and right as she pulled them off her slim legs.
"Very nice," he murmured appreciatively. Encouraged by his reaction, she continued the striptease and extended the same treatment to her briefs. His unwavering gaze made her feel so sexy, and the desire in his eyes fueled hers. This wasn't her first time with a man, and she'd been stark naked enough times to not feel conscious about her nudity. But there was something about being absolutely unclothed in front of a man for the first time that excited her, that exhilarated her and made her feel alive.
She let her eyes roam over Aidan's body, admiring how his cheekbones looked so much more pronounced in the moonlight, taking in the sleek musculature of his physique and the faint lines of his six-pack that rippled as he moved. His impressive erection stood stiff and proud, and she couldn't stop flicking her eyes over it, feeling the pangs of desire shoot straight south as she wondered how it would feel like to be fucked by it.
Aidan felt his cock twitch as he saw her standing there with her lips slightly parted in expectant lust and the shaved slit between her legs moist with want. He knew that she must be half crazed with desire, desperate to have her taut nipples kissed and her groin licked -- he could see it in the way she stood, her breasts gently thrust out, her breathing heavy and labored, shoulders rigid with tension.
He hid a smile as he relished the thought of teasing her some more, wanting to push her to her limit, but the pleading look in her eyes made him decide against it. Aidan began to kiss a trail down her collarbone, smoothing his palms on the skin on her stomach, slowly moving upwards, deliberately moving at a glacial pace so that he could watch her eyes crash shut as she reflexively arched her back, pushing her breasts forward.
But the time for games was over. Without warning, he cupped her breasts and squeezed them, eliciting a loud cry from her.
"Ooh. Sensitive, are we?" he drawled.
She was barely coherent now. "No ... just ... I ... just..."
"Shhh." He silenced her with his lips, pinching her hard nipples as he did so and she squirmed in response. "Tonight, I'm going to fuck you so, so hard," he whispered. The words served as an aphrodisiac and she could feel the moisture beginning to pool between her legs, the fire within her burring hotter than ever. She wrapped her soft hand around his engorged member and began to stroke it, deviously avoiding the sensitive head that was leaking fluid.
Aidan could feel himself beginning to lose control, and so he closed his lips around a nipple, to which she tipped her head back and hissed in pleasure, her fingertips pressed hard onto his scalp at the sensation of his tongue flicking over the tip of her bud. One of his hands was firmly tweaking the rosy peak of the other breast, while the other meandered downwards to slip beneath her folds.
She was so wet, so incredibly aroused that she could feel her own moisture on her thigh. "Please," she whispered, and Aidan dragged a finger through her slick pussy as he gently bit on her nipple, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her spine and making her cry out.
"You're so wet for me," he murmured, his breath warm on her ear.
When she nodded he pushed a finger roughly inside her, making her whimper as she thrust her hips forward, wanting to take more of him inside her. She fought for control as he continued his ministrations -- a deft tongue on her nipple, pumping his finger in and out of her with growing speed as her hand jerked him off with increased vigor, bringing him close to the edge --
He broke off abruptly. "Hold on," he reached for a nearby drawer and pulled out a silver foil packet. She positioned herself on the bed, never taking her eyes off him as he unrolled the condom onto his cock. By the time he was done, she was lying on the bed with her legs spread, a sly smile on her face.
"Fuck," his eyes gleamed with pleasure as his gaze ran over her body appreciatively.
He clambered over her, making her heartbeat race as his body loomed over hers imposingly. She pulled his head down for a deep kiss, smoothing her hands over the muscles of his back. He pulled her legs up and hooked them over his shoulders, feeling between her legs with one hand to open her up. Gwyneth gasped when she felt the blunt tip nudge open her pussy, stretching her almost painfully wide as he slowly pushed forward and buried his full length inside her. She groaned, feeling the familiar burn as her walls stretched to accommodate his thick length, instinctively wrapping her legs around him. Never had anyone filled her like this, not any of her previous boyfriends - his thick cock inside her felt impossibly huge.
"Jesus," he breathed, "you're so fucking tight." As he leaned forward to kiss her she felt him shift slightly inside her, triggering a wave of undulating pleasure. They held still in the same position for some time until she was ready, then he began to take long, smooth strokes that were eased by her slick wetness. Her hands gripped his back tighter as began to ride her with increasing urgency. Her hips rose to the metronome rhythm of his thrusts as her moans rose in a syncopated chorus -- she was nearing climax, the familiar tension coiling deep within her like a serpent.
His face was crumpled in concentration, beads of sweat forming on his hairline as his hips ground to the finish. He heard her gasps becoming more frantic and sensing that she was near, he pressed his face to hers, close enough for her to hear him hiss. "Come for me."
And then she erupted.
She came like she'd never come before - it started as an incredible wetness in between her legs, as if she was a pitcher of hot nectar tipping over. Pools of warmth diffused from her core as stars swam through her vision, her back arched and head thrown back into the pillows. All she could do was repeat incoherently that she was wet while he continued pounding into her contracting pussy harder and harder until he, too, found release. The sound of his guttural groan aroused her, sweetening the pleasure infinitely until she slowly floated back to earth, her breathing gradually slowing down.
"Oh my God," she breathed, still euphoric from the orgasm, "that was incredible."
He only smiled as he pulled out of her and peeled off the used condom. "You were incredible," he mumbled sotto voce. She giggled as his kissed her again, luxuriating in the warm afterglow of sex. The orgasm left her limbs felt like jelly in the comfortable bed and she struggled to stay awake, the fingers of sleep creeping into her consciousness. "Get some rest," he brushed her hair off her face and kissed her forehead as her eyes fought to stay open, and the last thing she remembered before falling asleep was the feeling of his fingers drawing patterns on the skin of her forearm.
Gwyneth woke up in a bundle of white linen, swathed deliciously in warm sheets. She squinted against the morning sun as her mind slowly pulled together memories from the night before, and then she jolted awake. Her heart plummeted when she remembered that she was in bed with Aidan. Reluctantly, she turned around to see if he was still in bed, half wishing he wasn't there so she could slip out unnoticed and get home as soon as possible --
"Morning." He had a lazy grin on his face, his voice still deliciously sleepy and deep.
"Morning," she eked back, blood pounding in her ears. She was at a loss for words, confused as to the appropriate course of action. What was a woman who'd just woken up in bed with her boss to do? It dawned upon her that this was her first proper fling -- she'd never really had a one-night stand before. Sure, she'd dated, but sleeping with men and bailing out in the morning was uncharted territory.
He looked at her startled face, wanting to smile at her nervous fear.
"You're looking at me like I'm an axe murderer, which I am most assuredly not."
"I'm pretty sure that's what Patrick Bateman would've said," she deadpanned.
He chuckled and leaned over to kiss her deeply as his fingers found their way into her hair. Sure, he was a great fuck, Gwyneth thought, but he was a remarkable kisser. The feeling of his lips on hers left little room for worries and she felt her inhibitions melting away as she tasted him on her tongue, losing herself in the pleasure.
"So you've watched American Psycho." He murmured playfully. "Seems like we're going to be very good friends, if this is going to work out."
She felt slightly relieved at the sound of those words, but equally as perplexed. Of course she wanted him, wanted this, wanted to be kissed and fucked as she was last night. In the silence, she quickly weighed her options, analyzing all the possible outcomes of this strange, strange scenario. But when she turned to face him she knew that she was lost. His crystal eyes were crinkled into a small smile as his fingers continued to skim across her skin and the decision was made. Gwyneth propped herself up on one arm and reach out to stroke his firm chest.
"We're really doing this, then?" she said airily. "Friends with benefits?"
"Friends with benefits," he echoed, looking pleased.
She smiled happily, satisfied by the agreement of terms. "But wait," she frowned, "what about work?"
"Work will have to be work," his face suddenly turned serious, devoid of any amusement. "I'm afraid I won't be extending this warmth to the office, and though I may seem cold, I think it's for the better -- just to ensure that personal conflicts do not get in the way of business. I hope you agree?"
"Absolutely," she gushed. Gwyneth had worked too hard for too long to risk opportunities over rumors that she was sleeping her way to the top. "Well," she started, "I'm looking forward to working with you, Mr. Scodelario-"
"Aidan," he corrected.
"No, Mr. Scodelario," she insisted in mischievous tones, and he let it slide. "And I think you'll soon find that I can, and will, be an invaluable asset to Lynch, Scodelario and Ackham." She announced in feigned authority. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go get cleaned up..."
"Bathroom's over there, and I'll bring you your clothes in a while," he threw off the duvet and pulled on his boxers. After he closed the door behind him, she quickly leapt out of bed and rushed into the bathroom. It was huge, especially compared to the one she had at home -- a wide expanse of white granite, glass and chrome. She figured out the shower quickly enough and was busy washing up when he knocked on the door.
"Gwyneth?" he called out.
She turned off the tap to hear him better. "Yeah?"
"I left your clothes on the bed, if that's alright."
"Thanks!" she yelled back.
"D'you suppose there's room in there for one more?"
She opened the bathroom door without a towel, covered only by sparse patches of foam, her eyes gleaming with pleasure.
"Do stay for breakfast," he cajoled in inviting tones. Her resolve weakened momentarily, but she pulled on her freshly laundered jacket, reminding herself that this arrangement was a delicate one. Sex was on the agenda, but Saturday breakfasts? Not so. Gwyneth couldn't help but steal a glance at him, feeling the heat creep into her face at the sight of him leaning against the doorway in a simple t-shirt and boxers, his muscles faintly visible through the bare clothing. "Not today, I'm sorry," she demurred. "Maybe some other time?"
Aidan came close and his warm hand closed over hers, his skin pleasantly dry and smooth. "Promise?"
"Promise," she smiled and he hugged her tight.
"How will we be doing this?" she asked, her head tilted quizzically to one side. "Strictly weekends only?"
He mulled it over briefly. "Weekends, definitely..." to which she pouted in jest.
"Really? Only weekends?"
He shrugged. "We could squeeze things here and there, no question..."
"Wednesdays," she asserted.
"Yeah," she answered in hearty tones. "They're usually the worst day of the week, and I could use the company..." her eyes glinted with mischief and he chuckled deeply, slightly aroused by her suggestion.
"So it's Wednesdays and weekends, then?" he affirmed, leaning forward so that his face was level with hers, so close that she could see the streaks of dark blue in his irises --
"Wednesdays and weekends it is," she agreed in a whisper and his mouth closed over hers, capturing her in a haze of bliss and desire, as her heart throbbed softly in her chest.
Aidan was reading the day's Wall Street Journal - or at least, he was trying to - but his thoughts were constantly pulled to Gwyneth. He lowered the pages of the paper to survey his surroundings. His place was painfully minimalistic, almost surgical, done in the monochrome of black and white. For some reason, the women he usually brought home felt that the place lacked warmth and needed some redecorating. The spacious penthouse was a wide expanse of bare surfaces with no photos on the walls, no flowers in vases or knick-knacks from travels.
Even his books were filed away alphabetically in huge floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He remembered how she walked around the living room slowly, taking in the plush slate gray sofa, the black coffee table and the white alpaca rug. When she saw the Al Held piece hanging near the dining area her interest was apparent, but otherwise her expression was difficult to read and he couldn't surmise if she, too, felt that the place was too spartan. However, she'd hopped out of his place quickly enough under the pretense of running errands - and with a chaste kiss on the lips, she was gone.
Aidan shook his head when he realized that his mind was drifting. Why should he care what she thought about the place? Granted, she intrigued him deeply. The sex had been amazing, no doubt. But there was something else. He couldn't put a finger on it, but something about Gwyneth Kenner had him hooked - was it the fact that she loved all the bands he did, or her remarkable ability to laugh at all the little things he usually overlooked? It doesn't matter, he told himself as he turned his attention back to an article about burgeoning markets in bioengineering.
"Coming!" Gwyneth called out as she jogged towards the door, putting on her earrings as she did so. She opened the door to see Dylan waiting outside, dressed in a green shirt and dark jeans.
"You ready?" he raised his eyebrows.
"One minute..." she scrabbled for her clutch and hastily dumped some loose cash into it. " ... and I'm good. Let's go!" her voice was cheerful.
They were meeting up with the usual gang like they did every Saturday night. As Dylan clicked the doors of his car open, he asked - "Where exactly is your car again?"
"Decided to let my mom have it," Gwyneth answered as she pulled the seatbelt across her chest, "she needs it a lot more than I do, what with my brothers and all. Besides, the subway's fine - and I have you." She shot him a cheeky grin.
He eyed her warily. "You're very chirpy today. What's up with you?"
"Nothing," she said, feigning innocence. Dylan didn't budge an inch and continued to frown at her suspiciously.
She stared back at him with wide eyes.
"What?" her voice was indignant.
Without flinching, he continued to survey her with an accusing glare. Gwyneth could practically see the cogs in his brain working furiously, like he always did when he went into Lawyer Mode - and with a click, his face relaxed in triumph. A slow smile spread across his face.
"You shagged someone," he declared in a confident voice, "you were on a date last night, weren't you? Rhetorical question - of course you were -"
"I did not!" Gwyneth interrupted hotly, hoping with utmost desperation that she wasn't blushing. "Sure, that makes sense - when I'm happy, it's because I just had sex."
"You totally had sex," Dylan maintained, completely ignoring her outburst. "Hide it from me all you want, you know I'll find out soon enough," he winked at her.
She felt a bolt of alarm when he said that - despite his surfer boy attitude, Dylan was no fool - but she just rolled her eyes and snorted in derision, hoping that dropping the subject would divert his attention. They drove in silence as she looked out the window, thinking of Aidan as she watched the streetlights whizz past.
Gotta be more careful, she reminded herself. If Dylan found out, he would object to it, no question. And she didn't blame him. This was the beginning of a huge gamble, and every step she took raised the stakes. However, it wasn't long before she was laughing uproariously in a bar with her friends as Dylan attempted to shove another buffalo wing into his mouth, and by then, Aidan was the last thing on her mind.