Authors: Portia Da Costa
The Efficiency Expert
Portia Da Costa
© 2011 by Portia Da Costa
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
N.B. Please be aware that this excerpt contains sensual content that is only suitable for adult readers who are comfortable with frank language and descriptions of erotic scenarios
here. The efficiency expert. He's in my favorite bar on my favorite stool, just when I thought we'd got rid of him.
I'm supposed to be here celebrating. The company's efficiency review is finally over, and I've kept my job by the skin of my teeth. I thought that hyena of a consultant or troubleshooter or whatever the hell he is would be long gone by now, and good riddance. But what do I find? He's still here and drinking in the very place where I'm about to toast his departure.
Noah Stevens, that self-same efficiency troubleshooter stroke corporate carnivore. The very monster everybody's so glad to see the back of, even if he is unbearably cute and sexy in his stern, almost machine-like sort of way.
He doesn't look stern tonight though. Or even remotely mechanical. In fact he looks as weary as hell, almost shattered somehow, as if he's been punched in the gut by fate. Could this be a pang of unexpected sympathy I'm feeling? Work wise, he's been beyond a nightmare, but somehow with shoulders slumped, his blond hair a bit ruffled, and a slightly rubbed-out look about his eyes, not to mention what looks like a quadruple vodka in front of him, he looks strangely vulnerable. Kind of tender and touchable. Definitely in need of a hug.
Shall I run for it? Get discreetly out of here, and join the festivities with the other survivors? I'm tempted, but something about the line of his body intrigues and stirs me. I must admit, I have a few types, and as a Mr. Sharp Suit Corporate, he's not really one of them. And yet, even though he's made my life a hell of uncertainty these past few weeks, I do -- reluctantly -- fancy him something rotten.
He turns from the bar and makes my decision for me.
"Hi, Susie. Are you drinking?" He taps the stool next to the one where I usually sit, "Have one on me. I think I owe you one, if not three or four."
Well, ain't that the truth!
"Okay. Yes, that'd be great." I slide onto the stool. Up close, he looks quite different from the barracuda of the office. The jacket of his sharp business suit is on the stool beyond, and the shirt beneath looks deliciously soft and moulds to the shape of his shoulders and chest. His broad deep chest. I've never actually seen him out of his tailored corporate armor before, but he's a beautiful male treat now that he's revealed to me a bit of what previously I've only speculated about.
His thighs are nice too, strong-looking as he adjusts his position on the stool slightly. As he signals to the barman, I can't help wondering what his cock is like. Is he big? He looks as if he might be, but it's difficult to get a clear view without being caught blatantly ogling him. The way he shifted in his seat just then makes me speculate that he might have a hard on. For me? Just like that? Such wild, untamed sexiness seems totally at odds with his until-now strictly controlled persona.
I request what he's having and get a double gin, over ice. Not my usual tipple, but it's somehow both head-clearing and intoxicating. A bit like Noah himself really.
We clink glasses and we stare into each other's eyes. His look reddened by fatigue, and perhaps something else, and the fact that he allows me time to note this is like a pact between us. We've barely spoken about anything other than work, but now, everything seems fair game.
"Well, you look worn out. Terrible in fact." It's a lie. For all his fatigue, he still looks fabulous. "Must be hard work threatening people's jobs and putting the fear of God into them. Surely you're not feeling pangs of guilt?" I swig my gin, and watch his pink tongue sweep out and lick droplets of his own drink from his lips. My pussy clenches convulsively. Shockingly. The image of that tongue sweeping between my labia makes me almost rock on my stool.
"No, not guilt. I'm not ashamed of being tough on the company, and that's a fact." His head comes up, defiant. In a flash of all-business Noah, his eyes harden and he looks like a warrior. "That place was full of dead wood, and it needed shaking up." He reaches for his glass, drains it, orders two more without consulting me.
"You're right there. But what is it? There's something. You look shattered. Have you had some bad news?" It seems perfectly okay to challenge him now, ask probing questions. I feel like a warrior too, and with my pussy still throbbing, I imagine myself subduing him in bed, kneeling over him, holding down his arms while I force him to tongue me. The picture's so vivid that I have to gulp down another big mouthful of my gin.
Noah drinks again too. He seems to have quite a capacity for it. But his eyes are dead level and sober as he answers me.
"Girl trouble." He shrugs elegantly, his face both wry and strangely wounded as he stares back at me.
Now how come I subconsciously suspected that? He's an invulnerable hard case, but like all hard cases, he has an Achilles heel too. And his is a romantic susceptibility, it seems. I don't know how I know, but some woman somewhere has hurt him.
"Sorry to hear that," I offer cautiously. I lick my lips. Suggesting solace.
He gets the message, and straightens up on his stool, flaunting his gorgeousness. And the more I see, the more gorgeous he seems. "There's one way to deal with it though." His eyes narrow, in my direction.
I don't ask him what that way is, because I don't need to.
"Hair of the dog. Or should I say bitch." He gives a little shrug and a quirk of his lips at his lapse in political correctness, then slips off his stool, swoops up his jacket and briefcase, and starts walking. I follow, suddenly well aware that the Royale Bar is in the lobby of a large hotel, and this is probably where he's staying.
This is crazy. Unexpected and yet expected. It's been building since he first walked into the office, but we're both too professional to have succumbed to it.
I'm not wrong about his intention, or mine, and once we're in the lift together, he confirms everything I suspected. His briefcase falls to the floor with a
and his jacket follows it. In one beat of my heart, he manhandles me up against the mirrored wall, and sticks his tongue in my mouth and his hand up my skirt. He kisses me hard, jabbing, jabbing, jabbing, and grabs my crotch through my panties and gives it a rough, possessive squeeze.
Now this is what I call an efficiency expert.
I nearly come on the spot, I'm so excited. My head whirls, full of his delicious cologne, the one that's tantalized me all the time he's been with us, and the fumes of our shared gin. I anoint my knickers with lusty juice and his laugh of slightly tipsy victory seems to vibrate through both our bodies.
"I knew I was right about you." He's triumphant, and he's still working me, even as he stares into my face, his eyes like stars. "I knew you were a sexy woman under all the seriousness. I knew you fancied me." Swiveling his wrist, he changes his hold on me, and his fingertips prize aside my knickers-gusset. Then he's in, right in, flicking at my clit, while with his other hand, he's round the back, squeezing my bottom cheek through my skirt. "God knows I've fancied you, Susie. It's nearly killed me, what with one thing and another."
I moan, torn between rising on my toes and bearing down hard on his fingers. He's really unstoppable. No delicate, tentative, getting-to-know-you caresses here. He grabs hold of me like a force of nature and handles me hard. I feel like collapsing and it's only the lift wall that's holding me up. Dimly I wonder why on earth we haven't reached our floor yet, but then I see that he's pressed the "hold" button somewhere in amongst fondling.
But we can't stay in here long, and I realize that he won't release me until I come. So, bearing down it is, and as he laughs again, and renews his furious efforts, I clutch my breast, tweaking my nipple through my bra.
That always gets me off, and this time's no exception. With a harsh, uncouth grunt I give in to it, my pussy pulsating like a heart and yet more juice slithering out of me to saturate Noah's fingers.
"Good little Susie. That was nice. I love bringing a woman off. I love to feel her pleasure against my hand."
He's arrogant, domineering, quite ruthless. Like his office persona, but in a thrilling new variant. He sucks the taste of me off his fingers and then releases the lift, and in seconds the door's sliding open. I barely manage to straighten my skirt in time, and I stagger out onto his floor, convinced that the older guy who's just got into the car will smell me and know what we've been doing. I imagine him grinning and maybe touching himself as he descends.
I feel I have to assert myself and regain some ground.
"I don't normally do that, you know," I say firmly as I follow Noah along the corridor. "I'm only using you as compensation for all you've put us through. You do realize that, don't you?" It's the first thing that comes into my head, but it seems to make sense. Which is a miracle, really, because I can't stop looking at Noah's fabulous ass in his well cut trousers. I'd like to fall on my knees, rub my cheeks again those cheeks, and caress his masculine bum this very minute.
"No problem. I know that," he says, "And I deserve it. It's a damn sight more than a drink that I owe you." He flings me a smile and wink over his shoulder. "Do you think that guy who got into the lift just now knows I was just repaying a debt?"
I bet he did.
The moment the room door closes behind us, Noah gives me a long questioning look. He's still dominant, still a man who's used to being in charge. But he's not quite the ruthless bastard all my colleagues think he is. He wants to know that I want what he wants.
He says, "Strip. All off. I want to see you naked, you gorgeous woman."
Shaking, I drop my bag into an armchair and start to obey him, even though my fingers don't seem to work right. He flings aside his briefcase and jacket and crosses straight to the dressing table. There's a bottle of Gordon's there, and a glass, and he seems to consider pouring himself a measure. Golly, he can't half knock it back.
But then he appears to think twice, and turns to me. The fact that he considers me intoxicating enough already makes me warm, warm, warm.
When my clothes are off, I've never felt more naked in my life. I'm dripping again too, and I could swear he'll be able to see it running down my thighs.
"Show me your pussy, love. Lie on the bed. Legs open wide."
All of a tremble, I comply, lying back and holding my knees to open myself. He comes right up to me, and studies my wet flesh. Then he reaches between my labia, grabs my clit and tweaks it between his finger and thumb. I whine like a baby, but he's merciless. Within seconds I'm coming again, my pussy clenching, clenching, clenching.
I gasp for air, beached on the bed, my sex on fire with the embers and aftershocks of pleasure. I can't do a thing and I don't resist when he manhandles me further across the mattress, then starts working on his belt buckle.
Within seconds he has his cock out, and it's a beauty, just as I hoped it would be. It certainly looks damned pleased to see me, hard and hot and high, glans gleaming with pre come.
"I hope you've got a condom for that thing." I can't see an efficiency expert not having one, but better safe than sorry.
He narrows his blue eyes at me, but he's smiling. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the requisite foil package. I wonder dimly if he's been carrying one all the time he's been working at the firm. Efficiency expert, eh? Always organized and prepared for anything. I whimper, staring up into his stern, passionate face as he enrobes himself in a quick, businesslike fashion. Has he been aroused before? Has he been suppressing his desire all the time he's been putting the fear of God into the workforce? His desire for me, has it been there all the time, but controlled because of circumstances and, presumably, his "girl trouble"?
Without further ado, he lowers himself between my thighs and with a deft adjustment, positions himself and pushes firmly into me. When he's lodged in deep, I caress him, clasping my sex around his, just as firmly.
"Yes! Hell, yes! Oh God, yes!" he shouts, jamming himself into me, demanding more. Which I'm ecstatically happy to give. Working him with my inner muscles, I'm pleasuring myself as much as I am him, and still moaning and gasping, I reach around, rummage in his clothes and grab his sexy bottom at the same time, sliding my fingers into the cleft to tickle his anus and add an extra frisson to his pleasure.