6. Brendan
CHAPTER 6
Brendan
I was wrong-footed last time I met Marlowe; that’s why I behaved like such a fucking loser.
I was prepared for a boring night of “culture” at the Royal Academy, prepared to suck it up for the sake of the family name, to drink champagne, and give my brother a hard time about how he should fuck his hot assistant, and possibly flirt with a few attractive women.
I was most definitely not prepared to come face to face with a woman who had the face of an angel.
Neither could I have ever expected that my well-trodden autopilot functions of sexy smile and flirty one-liners would malfunction to the point of non-existence and leave me gaping and stuttering and barely able to shake her hand.
It had never happened to me before, and it hasn’t happened since, and it’s sure as fuck not happening today.
Because I am a CEO of a FTSE 100 company, not to mention one of the most eligible—and accomplished—players in London, and I won’t tolerate being a tongue-tied schoolboy in front of my prospective EA with benefits.
I just won’t.
When Plain Elaine, who is more of a general PA than a dedicated EA anyway, calls through to say that Marlowe has arrived, I force myself to sit tight for a few minutes.
First impressions are important, especially when they’re actually second impressions and you’ve already fucked up the first round.
So I’m intent on portraying to Miss Winters from the offset that I’m a busy, powerful guy juggling a million Very Important Balls.
I hastily pop a mint in my mouth, take out my keyring with its fidget spinner, and watch three recent TikToks from my favourite creator and owner of a barrel-shaped Staffy called Tinkerbell.
Fuck, she’s cute. Not as cute as Mark, obviously.
If the owner didn’t live somewhere in Scotland, I’d be tempted to cyber-stalk him and suggest a doggy play date.
I can just tell Mark and Tinks would get on famously.
When I arbitrarily judge that I’ve kept Marlowe waiting long enough, I press the intercom for reception.
‘Send her in.’
I open my office door before standing in front of my desk to greet her.
Mark trundles to the doorframe.
My office takes up one corner of the executive floor and is a showcase for the quality Sullivan Construction is known for, with its double-height ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, acres of plush white carpet, and impeccable finish.
I’ve purposely kept the furnishings minimal to emphasise the sense of spaciousness.
It’s really very Zen, especially for a guy like me.
Nothing about me is Zen.
I roll my shoulders back to improve my posture, widening my legs to assume a victory stance as I stick my hands in my pockets.
I’ve got this. I am a strong, capable man, the head of a business empire, and a respected leader.
I have women coming out of my ears, smoke coming off my Raya app, and so many options for pussy that I don’t need Alchemy or Seraph or—wait.
Did I remember to send back those contracts, or…
?
Focus, Sullivan.
Woman. Job. Interview.
Respected leader. Where was I?
Right.
Oh, fuck.
Jesus fucking Christ.
She’s just so damn beautiful , in a way that’s ethereal and natural.
Wholesome and sexy at the same time.
She appears in the doorframe, bending to greet Mark.
He’s lodged himself squarely in her path, giving her no choice but to acknowledge him.
Her long blonde hair falls in a sleek curtain over her face, and I shamelessly ogle the silhouette of her body in heels and a pale pink fitted dress that might just be my downfall.
She hasn’t seen me yet.
Mark, the little tart, is wiggling his ample arse at her as he laps up her attention.
I issue myself a stern reminder that the scope of today’s interview is strictly limited to the executive part of the role and that I can’t overtly drool over her, make any innuendos, or shove her to her knees to commence her “audition”.
All that is shelved until I decide whether she’s qualified to be my EA and she decides if she’s up for moving forward to the next stage, which really means that this afternoon is my audition, if you think about it.
I have to attract her and impress her and make her trust me and desist from freaking her out, and as I stare at her, that all seems like a pretty tall order.
I clear my throat in preparation for taking my voice as low as it’ll go.
‘Marlowe. Thanks so much for coming.’
She stops cooing over my dog and straightens up with a snap, her eyes going wide as her hair flies about her face.
‘Oh, hi,’ she says, clearly flustered.
‘I’m—it’s good to see you again, Mr Sullivan.
’
I shoot her my well-proven smile.
‘It’s Brendan, please.
’ Except when you’re sucking my cock.
‘Mark. Sit .’
My stupid dog does no such thing, and instead rubs his head against Marlowe’s thigh, something that should be my move.
The little traitor has completely abandoned our 'bros before hoes' pact.
We're going to have a serious talk about loyalty later, preferably when I'm not busy imagining what Marlowe looks like under that dress.
She manoeuvres herself gracefully around him so she can approach me.
She moves like she's completely unaware of her effect on men, which either makes her the most convincing actress I've ever met or dangerously na?ve.
I'm going to enjoy finding out which it is.
We extend our hands and shake.
‘It’s good to see you again, Brendan.’
This time, I’m prepared. This time, the shock of her skin against mine doesn’t turn me into a spineless, voiceless wanker. Because this time, I’m a big swinging dick in my big swinging dick office, and she is not my acquaintance’s stupidly hot friend but instead a candidate for the most big-swinging-dick hire I’ve ever made.
‘Thanks for coming in. This is Mark, my one-man welcoming committee.’
She turns to beam at him, and I’m instantly jealous.
‘He’s very sweet.’
‘He likes you. He doesn’t like everyone.’ Clever doggy. Mark is exquisitely discerning when it comes to humans, and Marlowe has passed his test with flying colours. My dog, who regularly snubs supermodels and once growled at a Victoria's Secret Angel, is acting like Marlowe has slipped him a steak.
Between his silent if enthusiastic approval and the glorious fucking sight in front of me, I may as well hire her on the spot.
It’s not like I give a shit what her qualifications are like.
The only skills of hers I’m interested in are the ones I won’t get to test out until the next round.
Fuck, I wish it was the next round.
As I usher her over to the huge white L-shaped sofa in the corner and Plain Elaine appears to take our coffee orders, I eye-fuck her as hard as I can.
Marlowe, that is. Not Elaine.
She looks far more groomed than at our ill-fated meeting at the RA.
I was too busy spinning out to lock down a concrete memory of her, but my memory is of a messy bun and lots of blonde wisps and a floaty dress.
Now her hair is a shiny golden curtain, and I’m a far bigger fan of the fitted sleeveless dress she’s wearing today.
It’s demure but sexy, and it definitely says bend me over your desk and spank me, Mr Sullivan.
So there’s that. Still, it’s not screaming for attention, unlike the packaging most of the women I date present themselves in.
It’s just framing what’s already worth looking at.
It’s classy.
And I’d forgotten her eyes were brown.
How the hell could I have forgotten that?
Blonde hair—it looks natural—and brown eyes and creamy, lightly tanned skin are an intoxicating combination.
They’re a clear coffee colour and they bring so much warmth to her appearance.
She’s tall and willowy and her bare legs are, from the clear view I got as she was petting Mark, knockout.
Between the legs and the face, she’s a solid ten, and she’ll hold that rank as long as she knows how to use her little pink mouth properly.
The fact that I’ll soon be paying to find out feels almost criminal—kind of like getting a brand new Aston Martin at a police auction.
She’s everything I remembered from that first sucker punch but all wrapped up in some sexy secretary package, which is so compelling that it feels like Christmas.
She could play some kind of sleek receptionist to a Bond villain.
The logical conclusion to that train of thought is that I’m the Bond villain in this scenario.
Elaine scurries off, shutting the door behind her— good —and I realise I've been staring at Marlowe’s mouth for an uncomfortably long time while my brain took a trip to Fantasy Island. This is why I take Ritalin on weekdays, for fuck's sake.
Not that any amount of brain food could keep me focused on spreadsheets with her in the room.
Shiny new catamarans be damned, because she’s undoubtedly going to be my new favourite toy.
I can’t wait to take her for a ride.