Paige seemed a friendly-enough business woman, but those who best knew she had dark side. She was also blindly ambitious with a formidable temper. She could be arrogant, overbearing, willful and conceited. Perhaps it was inevitable that this headstrong woman should one day encounter a determined man, one who would feel the need to adjust her attitude -- over his lap.
The word "Stormy" came to me now, the moment I saw her. It was the nickname her over-indulgent parents had bestowed on their pretty but obstinate little girl. Unlike many childhood nicknames, this one had stuck. And it didn't take me long to find out why, when that normally smooth brow wrinkled with annoyance, as it did now, it was clear that storm clouds were brewing.
And so the moment I picked Paige up, I saw that it was going to be one of those nights -- the kind that were becoming all too frequent. One look at the hard look in those dark eyes, those lips tightly-drawn in that slight downturn and I knew -- she was in one of her bitchy moods. Still, in spite of her petulant expression, I couldn't help admiring those classical good looks. Even with the storm clouds darkening her brow, Ms Paige Royce remained a very pretty girl indeed!
I always felt that it was that wholesome, All-American-Girl quality that she relied on to make her career. It wasn't that the girl wouldn't have been a business success had she been a plainer girl. She was bright, competent, and highly ambitious. And she certainly could be charming, even affectionate -- as I well knew. Yet it was her beauty that magically opened doors for her, that caused men's heads to turn to follow her crisp, confident stride, and women to glance up in envy as the tall girl with the long auburn hair strode past their desks in her trim suit and high heels.
Paige strode by like a fashion model sashaying down the runway, with that gliding, confident stride; aloof, expressionless, those high cheekbones defining the angular plains of a broad, Nordic face. Her mouth was generous with wide, precisely etched lips. And she had the most expressive dark eyes--feline eyes. She knew how to use those eyes -- a way of looking at you with those eyes that could instantly convince you that you, and you alone, was the only man in the world. I had also seen her use those eyes to devastating effect: taking the measure of people, sizing them up like a cat deciding whether the offering before her deserved her attention, or simply merited an indifferent shrug, before she stalked off in haughty disdain.
Just like every man saw her (I'm sure), I instantly began undressing her with my eyes, intrigued by the promise of that stately figure under those neatly tailored clothes, disarmed by those engaging eyes, and that confident, ready smile. I was helpless. Soon I found myself making frequent visits to the 27th floor, just to catch a glimpse of the pretty girl, going out of my way to meet her, as if by chance. We would exchange a few words. She laughed easily, seemed bright and friendly; and was not totally uninterested in me. She knew who I was of course; knew my position in the company.
And so I started asking about her. It soon became obvious that there was another side to this outwardly pleasant girl with the too-ready smile. The people who knew her best, those who worked with her admitted that she could be charming, but they also spoke of the dark side: moody and mercurial, temperamental, overwhelmingly self-centered, and often ruthless. Dan had once described her as a "bitch on wheels," and several knowing heads had nodded in grim agreement.
I was warned to be careful. But by now I was captivated, and clearly in no mood for dire warnings. I could take care of myself, and besides, there was something about the challenge of this proud beauty with the slightly bemused smile, something that fascinated me. Perhaps she was simply misunderstood, her natural ambition being seen by her colleagues as a threat. Perhaps, once away from the office, she would let herself be her true self -- a warm, receptive woman, that I was sure was in there somewhere. With these and similar assurances to myself, I encouraged myself and, with a mental 'damn the torpedoes,' charged blindly on.
But on nights like this I had the nagging feeling that it had all been a terrible mistake. Those were my thoughts now as I studied her elegant face in the soft light over our candle-lit table. Since we had left directly from work, Paige still wore her business suit: an expensive outfit of soft wool; a wide pleated skirt with matching tailored jacket. The severity of the dark tweed was softened by the cream-colored silkiness of a decidedly feminine blouse, the top two buttons of which she had left casually undone. Her burnished red hair, usually long and straight, had been gathered up in a neat chignon, increasing her neat, business-like appearance, although by this time of day, a few wispy strands had managed to escape. We talked in hushed whispers and occasionally, when she leaned closer to me, I would feel a stir created by the subtle fragrance she wore; a whiff of which could send me tingling with excitement.
But if her scent was seductive, her brow was still...well... stormy; eyes, sullen; manner, cold and unapproachable. She had had a bad day and, as was often the case when things went wrong at work, she began complaining about men, how they were such pigs, so insensitive, firing yet another salvo in the what was becoming an ever more frequent battle between the sexes. This sort of thing was becoming more common with her of late, and the more stridently feminist, anti-male she became, the more I felt my patience wearing thin.
It was only a matter of time till the trouble started. I don't remember the reason for the flare up, only that Paige seemed especially irritable, as if intent on picking a fight. We exchanged a few sharp words, hissed whispers in the quiet restaurant. Then she withdrew into the frigid silence of a sulking little girl. It was one of her less endearing qualities. By the time the dessert arrived we were barely speaking to each other.
The icy silence continued on the ride back to her place with each of us wrapped in our own righteous indignation. My first impulse was simply to see her home, turn around and walk out the door; good riddance. But then, once we were at her place, something held me back. I had a sudden desire not to let it send like this. We had had too many nights that ended in anger. Tonight I was determined we would get something settled between us, even if I had to force the simmering confrontation.
Back in her apartment, I made it obvious that I intended to stay a while, as we had originally planned before the evening had been de-railed. Quite deliberately, I took off my jacket and loosened my tie. Paige, aloof and indifferent, had slipped off her heels, discarded her jacket, and still without a word, swept past me into the kitchen. I assumed that she was going to make the drinks. It was obvious that neither of us seemed quite ready to call the whole evening off, although the tension was palpable by now.
I collapsed onto the sofa, lit a cigarette, and sprawled back, content to wait. In a moment she was back, a drink in each hand. Mine was set down on a coffeetable in front of me as, ignoring the couch, Paige crossed the room to take a seat opposite mine; the coffetable -- a symbolic barrier between us. She sat in a large comfortable chair, crossing her long legs, indifferent to the skirt that rode up to reveal several enticing inches of nyloned thigh. Staring moodily into her drink, the girl seemed lost in thought, one leg swinging mechanically. For the longest time neither of us spoke.
I knew that if the ice was going to be broken, I'd have to take the first step. And so I made some appeasing sounds, careful to put a note of sincerity into my voice. At the right moment I apologized, and offered to make up, extending a hand and beckoning her over. She paused as if to consider, then nodded, smiled a little crooked grin, and padded over on stockinged feet to stand beside me. Her smile broadened as she reached down to touch my face, extending a single finger to trace a line down my cheek and chin. I looked up into those gold-flecked eyes, softening now as she was beginning to mellow out. And I returned her smile with my own. Then I reached for her hand, bringing it to my lips, to kiss the soft fleshy palm.
Tightening my grip on her hand, I tugged gently, insistently, coaxing her down to me. She acquiesced, with lingering reluctance, letting herself be drawn down to sit in my lap, swinging her legs across mine as she settled onto my thighs. I brought an arm around her waist, while I placed my other hand up on her leg, slipping it just under the hem of the skirt, not too far up, easing it a few inches just above the knee, simply letting it rest there on the top of her silken thigh, feeling her moist warmth through the slick nylon of her pantyhose, while we exchanged the sort of sorry words that lovers use.
In a few minutes we ran out of words. Mellowing a little, Paige bent down to forgive me. Grudgingly, she imparted a brief kiss. And when our lips met, and I kissed her back, long and hard. Her lips yielded and soon we were locked in an open mouthed kiss. My hand came, my fingers in her hair, holding her in place as my tongue made a bold sally. I took advantage of that long kiss to slide my hand further up her leg, burrowing up under the soft folds of her wool skirt, to savor the satiny smoothness of a firmly contoured thigh.
We were both panting a little as the kiss trailed off. Now warm and cuddly Paige snuggled closer, resting her head dreamily against my shoulder. I saw her fine lashes flutter down as she gave herself up to my pleasuring hand which was busy exploring the secret warmth under her skirt. I looked down to watch as my wrist slid back the fabric, uncovering the full length of those mouth-watering thighs.
I curved my fingers to fit that lush thigh, dipping between her loosely parted legs, feeling my way toward the heat of her inner core. Her hot breath on my ear sent a shiver through me. And when my fingertips first touched her sex through the thin layers of damp nylon, she abruptly shot up with a sharp gasp. Her long lean body arched up and back, stretching like a big cat as I pressed the pad of single a fingertip into that moist yielding softness.
Now I settled into lightly stroking Paige's pussy through the slick nylon. Turning to nuzzle her long neck, my lips teased through the fine silky tendrils left below the upswept chignon, nibbling at the tempting flesh with light, fluttery kisses, as all the while, I kept up the slow dreamy caress of her pantied vulva, my own heat rising, my prick hardening in my pants. Paige heaved a long sigh of deep satisfaction, and as I blindly pressed two fingers along her hidden labia, she came out with a whimper, a plaintive little whine that escaped her tightly-pressed lips as I slowly stroked and rubbed along the ridge of those fleshy lips.
I let her luxuriate in the warmth of sensual pleasure my slow hand was generating, till I felt all the stiffness melt away, the nylon strip between her legs moistening with her juices. Then I decided the time was right to try my next move. My two stiff fingers were making tiny, lazy circles around her shrouded clit, causing her to squirm in rising agitation, when I whispered my opening gambit.
"Paige?" I murmured.
"Hummmm?" she hummed dreamily, her neck craning back in sensual pleasure.
