A Taste of You Don’t Know Me!

Hi!

This is mainly for participants in tonight’s author takeover on Surrender to Books. A taste of You Don’t Know Me:

‘Maya!’ I hear him calling me.
Dumping the glass jug onto the counter, I scurry back through reception and almost trip through the doorway into his office. He doesn’t notice. He’s busy flicking his way through a file.
‘What is it?’ I snap.
‘Bring my diary in,’ he mutters. ‘I’ve got a date to add.’
‘Do it yourself. I’m making coffee.’
I watch as he licks his finger, turning another page or two, apparently unbothered by my rudeness. He spends the next few seconds examining a graph before he finally looks up at me.
‘Miss Scotton,’ he smiles slowly. ‘Let me remind you that I’m in charge around here. Now do as you’re told.’
I feel a twinge of something down below, right between my thighs. And somehow I just can’t help myself. I hurry back out to reception, retrieve the diary and a biro, and return to him immediately. Without a word, he waves me into a chair that’s been positioned right next to his desk, watching me closely as I sink down into the leather.
‘Now,’ he says. ‘Thursday the thirtieth. I’ve got an on-site meeting at the Rowley shopping centre.’ He watches me some more, and I watch him right back, my temperature rising at the sight of his bloody wonderful face and his ruddy gorgeous eyes and his stonkingly perfect lips. He taps a finger against the desk and sighs. ‘Well write it in, woman.’
‘Screw you,’ I breathe.
I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m being feisty, and it’s working too.
His lips twitch.
‘The thirtieth,’ he repeats himself. ‘Write it in.’
‘Write it in,’ I mimic him. Opening up the diary and turning to the correct page, I scrawl the word Rowley as messily as I can. ‘Is that it?’
‘No, it’s not. Have I got anything on tonight?’
I flip my way back to today. There’s a huge list of meetings during the day and his next one is due any minute, but the evening is empty.
‘Nothing.’
‘Good. So, write this in. It’s just a little reminder to myself.’
I poise my pen, ready for the next messy entry.
‘Fuck my secretary.’
Oh, good Lord. What’s happening now? It’s as if some demented sex fairy is on the loose, tweaking me over and over again down below. Willing it to stop, I clamp my lips together and stare at him.
‘Good and proper.’ He points at the diary. ‘Make sure you add that bit.’
‘And what will Carla think when she gets back?’ I scribble the words fuck my secretary large across the bottom of the page, noting that he leans forwards anxiously as I do it. ‘I mean, she is your secretary, isn’t she?’ I add good and proper in capital letters, underscoring them a few times for good measure.
‘Not this afternoon, she’s not,’ he frowns. ‘This afternoon, you’re my secretary. You need to rub that out.’
He waves a hand at the diary.
‘No can do,’ I smile and I’m pretty sure he’s repressing a smile in return. ‘It’s in biro, and besides, you told me to write it. And anyway, why don’t you just fuck your secretary right now? Over there.’ I nod towards the sofa. ‘Like you did yesterday? And then why don’t you just ignore her afterwards and make her feel like an insignificant piece of crap?’
‘I’d love to fuck her right now. Over there.’ He nods towards the sofa. ‘I’d like to fuck her so hard she can’t speak for a week.’
‘Of course you would. I mean you’re not interested in a word she’s got to say. In fact, why let her talk at all? Why not just gag her?’
He leans further forwards.
‘What a wonderful idea. I’ll bear that in mind for later.’
‘There is no later.’
‘We’ll see about that. Now go and find some correction fluid and sort that diary out.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you go and find some correction fluid and shove it up your arse?’
‘That’s very childish of you, Miss Scotton.’
‘Sack me then.’
I glare across the desk at him, while he glares back at me, all mean and hot and moody. I watch as his lips twitch, his fists clench, and I’m silently satisfied that I’ve just given him the mother of all hard-ons. In fact, I’m almost certain that he’s about to leap out of his chair and shove me backwards over the sofa one more time when I’m disturbed by the sound of a phone.
‘That’s your phone,’ he glowers. ‘Go and answer it.’
I push back my chair, storm out to reception, and grab the receiver.
‘Mr Foster’s office,’ I announce at the top of my voice. ‘What do you want?’
‘Who’s that?’ a male voice demands and I recognise it instantly. It’s Clive, the evil friend.
‘Mr Foster’s secretary.’
‘You don’t sound like Carla.’
‘That’s because I’m not Carla.’
‘Who are you then?’
‘I’m Mr Foster’s piece of skirt.’
‘Maya!’ I hear him call through the doorway. ‘Behave yourself!’
‘Well, Mr Foster’s piece of skirt,’ Clive Watson grumbles. ‘Would you mind putting me through to him now?’
I buzz through the call.
‘It’s your twat of a friend,’ I explain. I’m so proud of myself.
There are a few seconds of silence before he speaks.
‘Put him through … and Maya?’
‘Yes?’
‘Shut my door for me, please.’

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