22. Miss St John #2
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Greta:
‘Jesus Dylan. I’m about to have my HR meeting.’
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Dylan:
‘Full of empathy for me and my public transportation plight, bouncing along in blissful agony with the great unwashed of Manchester. The bloke next to me smells like a cheese and onion pie FFS. Anyway, think about me in your meeting and how you’ll have the same ache tomorrow’
Greta:
‘How very professional’
Dylan:
‘Go away please. I’m very busy and extremely important.’
Dylan:
‘Remember not to panic. Dx’
Greta:
‘See you later. Gx’
Dylan:
xx
***
The all-consuming anxiety that Greta had carried in the pit of her stomach abated a little following her meeting with HR.
They were satisfied to wait for the findings from the university’s student wellness and safeguarding teams before deciding on recourse, a delay that afforded her some breathing room.
The woman she met with was kind, nodding and smiling in all the right places.
She was particularly relieved that Dylan had never worked with Greta at the Trust, acknowledging Greta’s exemplary career and formidable reputation.
After leaving the meeting, Greta was left with a tangible sense of calm, as her growing concerns began to lift, for the first time in weeks.
With the university safeguarding team due to meet with Dylan at some point soon, she told herself that once her side was heard, things would surely have to calm down.
Greta waited in line at Vanofee and thumbed open her WhatsApp messages, opening Dylan’s latest text.
Dylan:
‘Let me know how it goes with HR. Dx’
Greta moved forward in the queue and typed her reply.
Greta:
‘Better than I had anticipated. Fill you in later’
Dylan:
‘Nope, sorry. I can’t handle any more filling but I will gladly listen to you tell me about your day’
Greta:
‘Do you ever stop?’
Dylan:
‘Have you tried switching me off and on again? A little bop on the head might do it - that’s how you fixed those massive tellies in the 80s, isn’t it?’
Greta:
‘Goodbye, Dylan. Gx’
Dylan:
‘Laters. Dx’
Greta:
‘x’
Greta moved through the day carrying a newfound belief that things might be okay.
Instead of pushing the thought down, she allowed it to ruminate; she permitted herself a sense of hope she hadn't previously dared to consider. As she tried valiantly to concentrate, thoughts of Dylan consumed her. She replayed Dylan’s third orgasm from the night before over and over in her mind.
The way Dylan had come while she was buried deep inside her, almost still, pleading to hear Greta claim her.
The memory thrummed inside her chest, sending her heart into her throat to beat so wildly her cheeks rushed with heat.
Staring at her monitor, Greta drew in a deep breath, finally able to fill every space in her lungs.
The invisible hand that had been slowly squeezing her throat for years was gone.
After reviewing patient scans, blood results and making various case note entries, she sent her final email at around five o’clock.
She wasn't finished, not nearly, but she could sit at her desk for weeks without clearing the Sisyphean tasks in her inbox, so she decided to log off.
As the prospect of another night with Dylan washed over her in a wave of excitement, her phone vibrated on the desk with a message.
She quickly swiped it open, a wide smile still etched on her face.
Dylan:
‘Margs is getting there, at last! Antibiotics switch has helped. She looks quite perky today. I need to nip home. Be at The Midland at 7pm. Booking is in my name. Please come in a short dress, commando. Knock and wait. I’ll text you the room number. Do not be late.’
Dylan:
‘I hope your day was kind. Dx’
Reading the messages again, Greta couldn’t stop smiling. Shaking her head at her own giddiness, she bit her lip as she typed her reply.
Greta:
‘Commando, Miss St John? Gx’
Dylan:
‘Commando, Dr Vincent. Dx’
She finished the message with a fire engine emoji, making Greta huff a laugh through her nose.
***
Pulling her spine into a straight line, Greta took a steadying breath before rapping three slow knocks on the hotel door. A beat passed before she was summoned inside.
‘Come,’ Dylan’s stern voice called from within.
As Greta pushed the door open, her eyes immediately fell to Dylan, stood in the middle of the room, face serious, hands crossed over the front of her fitted suit jacket.
Her dark brown trousers tight over her thighs, the contours of her quads pushed against the fabric.
The high collar of her crisp white Vivienne Westwood shirt fastened with three buttons against her throat.
Biting back a whimper, Greta slowly dragged her gaze over her.
‘Close the door and turn around,’ Dylan barked, her gaze unflinching.
A smile tugged at the very corners of Greta’s lips as she canted her head, and quirked a perfect brow.
Tossing her clutch onto the burnt orange velvet chair, Greta did as she was told as Dylan watched on, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
A few moments passed as Greta stood still, head held high, a slight bend in one knee.
‘Dyl–’
‘Did I say you could speak?’
Greta dropped her head, her lips pursing around a smile as she almost physically felt Dylan’s gaze rake over her.
The twisted-by-design black dress, cinched her waist and complemented her curves.
Her calves were prominent in killer black heels, and her full, glossy waves fell over her shoulders. She felt as incredible as she looked.
A low vibration of excitement hummed in Greta’s core at the sound of Dylan approaching.
Without a word, Dylan gathered Greta’s hair, gently moving it over one shoulder before pressing her mouth onto the warm skin of Greta’s exposed neck, and placing a kiss where her lips landed.
Dylan’s breaths landed in hot puffs on Greta’s skin before she drew in a long breath, inhaling the scent of Greta’s Chanel perfume.
‘You look and smell fucking sensational,’ Dylan whispered against her skin, as goosebumps erupted over Greta's back.
A gasp escaped Greta’s throat as Dylan slowly pressed her pelvis into her from behind. The destabilising force of the contact pushed Greta forward, her hands flying to the door for balance.
‘Are you…?’ Greta inhaled sharply. ‘Are you strapped?’
Dylan didn’t speak. Instead, she performed another slow rock of her hips, pushing the dildo concealed in her trousers into Greta’s arse.
‘That’s the last time you speak,’ Dylan instructed. Her tone—and the sudden realisation of what was about to happen—already had Greta wildly turned on. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Greta replied softly.
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes Dyl–’
‘Miss St John,’ Dylan corrected.
‘Miss St John,’ Greta echoed, her tone sexy and amused as she bit back a smile.