Page 44 of Duplicity

I’m powerless against such a spectacular show of dominance, such a marathon of masculinity. Every single thing in my life reduces to this one point of contact where he’s doing battle with his majestic dick. The heat builds and then releases inside my body like the most beautiful crescendo, and I’m molten and boneless and gooey as my orgasm wrings me out over and over, vaguely aware that the gorgeous man behind me is letting rip with a string of filthy curses at how gratifying he finds my reaction to him.

‘The way you fuckingmilkme,’ he rasps. ‘Jesus fuck, it should be fucking illegal. I can feel every fucking tremor.’

He’s not far behind me, going impossibly swollen and rigid before coming with a strangled roar and a volley of pumps that feel so staggeringly good against my sensitive flesh that they have me wondering what it would feel like if he were bare and emptying himself inside me rather than a condom.

No, Marlowe. Bad thought.Bad. Not only is this guy probably fucking half of London on his nights off, but heprobably has super sperm. No more unplanned pregnancies, thank you very much.

When he’s done, he collapses on top of me, bracing himself on one hand so he can wrap the other one around my waist. Against my back, his chest radiates heat through the still-crisp cotton of his shirt. He lets out the most enormous sigh into my hair—the sated sigh of a victorious predator after a cardio-heavy hunt—before stroking the skin of my stomach with his hand. Deep inside me, his dick twitches. He releases me, straightening up, and I feel the loss of his body heat keenly.

I wince as he pulls out of me, and he slaps me on my bare bottom.

‘Well, that was very fucking good. I must get HR to add it to the onboarding manual.’

CHAPTER 22

Marlowe

‘The smoothies here are amazing, I have to say,’ Elaine tells me, gesturing around the palatial staff cafeteria. It’s a couple of floors down from the executive floor, a mainly white, light-filled space that looks like it’s been designed by a Zen master. Sure enough, there is an actual juice and smoothie bar that Tabby would love.

Apparently, the food is all fantastic and alsofree, which I thought was something that only happened at tech giants like Google. As I gaze around the food court at the grill, the salad bar and the omelette station, I can’t help but calculate not only how much money I’ll save, but how much time and headspace. No more assembling the next day’s lunch after Tabs has gone to bed. Now I just need them to do my laundry for me, too.

A woman can dream, right?

‘Great!’ I say brightly. Elaine is a lovely woman whose age I’d put in the mid-forties range. Her light brown hair is styled in a long bob, and she has the most genuine smile. I’m grateful to her for taking me under her wing, because to say I’m feeling discombobulated after Brendan’s particular brand ofonboardingis putting it mildly.

I’m actually compiling a mental list of things I need to stock up on. Lube, for sure, because that fit wastight.Wrist supports, possibly—a high plank has nothing on doggy-style on the floor for putting undue pressure on the wrists—and definitely an ice pack. I anticipate feeling very sore by tomorrow.

One thing Idon’tneed, it seems, is moisturiser. Athena told me that Camille makes a big deal about aftercare with its clients. Seraph has all kinds of tutorials about it, apparently. Brendan’s brand of aftercare appeared to be mainly a cheeky slap on the bottom for a job well done, so it surprised me when I emerged from putting myself back together in the swanky marble bathroom attached to his office to find him patting the sofa next to him.

Annoyingly, he didn’t look like he’d just had a shagathon. He was back to being perfectly put together, dark hair raked effortlessly back and his attire immaculate. He winked at me, dropping to his knees on the carpet once I was sitting and picking up a tub of what looked like fancy body butter. He then proceeded to rub said body butter into my carpet-burnt knees with a charming grin as I stared down at him, completely dumbfounded.

Nowthatwas discombobulating.

After our tour, I make myself comfortable at my new desk. I’m sitting in a spacious, low-walled cubicle next to Elaine and across from some of the other assistants who look after the rest of the management team on this floor. My sleek computer makes the one I had at the Royal Academy seem like an ancient relic. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself working out how to use it.

Elaine is a godsend. Brendan mentioned to me that he was in dire need of an executive assistant to assume the bulk of his professional workload from her, but he certainly hasn’t shown any interest in the more administrative side of my, um, onboarding process. When she and I settle ourselves on somesleek sofas over by the coffee machine for a debrief, three things become clear. One, she’s had way too much on her plate juggling both jobs, two, she’s pretty hilarious, and three, she’s a gold mine of information on my new boss.

‘There are a few things you need to know from the outset,’ she tells me, and I lean forward, eager to get the inside track on Brendan Sullivan, billionaire CEO and sex god.

‘If you have pens you like, hide them. He fidgets with everything, especially in meetings. During the last quarterly management meeting, I made the mistake of leaving my favourite fountain pen on the table. By the end, he'd completely disassembled it—springs, ink cartridge, the lot—while explaining our expansion plans to the management team. Never found the bloody cap. Now I keep a drawer of cheap clicky pens just for him. Hereallylikes clicking things. He has a fidget toy in his pocket, but basically nothing is sacred.’

I laugh out loud. That wasnotwhat I was expecting her to lead with. ‘Okay, got it. Cheap pens.’

‘Cheapclickypens, remember. Right, next thing. He operates on what I call “Sullivan Standard Time”. He's either fifteen minutes early or forty minutes late—there's no in-between. For important meetings, I tell him they start half an hour before they actually do. He thinks he's chronically late, but he's actually been surprisingly punctual for the past year. He has no idea.’

‘Understood,’ I say, making a mental note to keep Brendan’s calendar on this adjusted time going forward.

‘Oh, but he absolutely hates it if anyone else is late, especially if he’s turned up early. He throws a total toddler tantrum. There’s nothing worse to him than people wasting his time, and it’s your job to chivvy everyone along so they don’t rock up late and derail everything. I usually call the key attendees up fifteen minutes before a meeting starts.’

I can see that. I can easily imagine Brendan pacing, throwing his toys. And it’s not much of a leap to understand why a guy who hates wasting time might incorporate his sexual needs into his office hours.

‘That makes sense,’ I say. ‘Uh—does he throw many toddler tantrums?’

‘A few. He doesn’t exactly have a filter, and it can come off badly. But don’t get me wrong—the guy has a heart of gold. Last summer, we had this intern on our floor for a few months. Harry. Brendan took a real shine to him. The poor kid was in floods of tears one day—he was only about twenty—and Brendan took him out for a walk. Turns out his mum had suspected skin cancer, but the waitlist on the NHS for her to get biopsied was months and months.

‘Brendan forked out for her to see a private dermatologist and then for all her treatments after that. Turned out she did have skin cancer, and it cost thousands and thousands to get it sorted privately. But he didn’t bat an eye. He thinks nothing of stuff like that. He’s one of the most generous people I’ve ever met.’

I smile dreamily. So he’s a big softie when it counts. ‘I’m so happy to hear that.’

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