When he woke in the morning, the crumpled hotel bed sheets beside him were empty. He was momentarily disorientated. He could not even remember going to sleep - he must have passed out. She had been so voracious, so incredibly energetic and enthusiastic, wanting sex over and over - this way, that way, coaxing him back to arousal time and time again. He'd never known a lover anything like her. And now – gone. Not even so much as a note on the pillow. Just for one devastating moment he wondered if it had all been one long, incredibly detailed erotic dream, but the smell of sex and sweat on his skin and the ache in all his overused muscles reassured him.
He went through the motions of preparing for another day at the local branch, but his mind was not on business. He was having difficulty emerging from the sexual haze of the previous night, and his brain kept asking unanswerable questions. Who was she? Why had she been at that bar scouting for men to seduce? Did she do it often? Did she always make love with such... energy? Why did she leave in the night? Without even telling him her name? Would it be possible to find her again? Would she even want to be found?
He kept trying shrug the questions off, counselling himself with his usual pragmatism to just enjoy the recollection of an amazing night of sex and stop obsessing over questions there were no answers to. But as he arrived at the office branch and trudged past reception he had yet to succeed in dragging his mind away from the mysterious red head back to the mundane tasks of the day.
"Coffee please, Miss Brown, as soon as you're able," he called over his shoulder to the dull but efficient secretary who had taken care of the bulk of the administrative drudgery associated with his visit.
He heard her clear her throat and reply rather hoarsely, "Yes Mr Pearson," and wondered inconsequentially if she was ill, but was still too distracted by his erotic memories to pay much mind.
A few minutes later a steaming coffee was brought to his office by one of the junior accountants. He frowned at it. "Thank you, but where is Miss Brown? I anticipated her assistance in getting Smithton accounts in order this morning."
The young woman shrugged. "She made the coffee, but she asked me to bring it to you. She said she had to go home."
"Oh? Is she sick?"
"She didn't seem sick when she came in. She just suddenly seemed to get all flustered.
Something's up with her though. I would never have picked her as the type to go out and get a crazy new hair colour, she's normally so shy and conservative, but that's what she's done. Maybe it's a midlife crisis."
"She changed her hair?" He tried to picture what it had been like before. Brownish? "What colour is it now?" Why on earth did he care?
"Red."
A co incidence, of course. He definitely remembered Miss Brown as a dumpy mousey woman in tweed, even if he couldn't really recall her face. But nonetheless he heard himself saying, "Could you ask Miss Brown to come and see me in my office before she leaves?"
The junior accountant left. Mr Pearson found himself leaving his desk and stalking over the window of his office, which afforded a view of most of the rest of the office floor. He spied Miss Brown – she had her back to him and a hand bag on her shoulder. Her hand was on the door of the exit to the street and her head was turned toward the junior accountant, who was gesticulating firmly back toward where he stood. He saw her shake her head as she argued, then saw her shoulders sag slightly as she capitulated.
Irritatingly she was wearing a head scarf that concealed her much of her hair. But then she turned, and he released the breath he hadn't realised he was holding all in a rush.
Fuck, that was her. No make up, no sexy tight fitting clothes... but the face, the form, and that tell-tale fringe of bright red hair! He found the quick bolt of excitement he felt was quickly swamped by anger. Why had she seen fit to trick him? Then to run away in the night like a coward? What had he done to deserve such blatant rejection?
He watched her cross the floor towards his office, her reluctance obvious. With a sharp twist, he snapped the blinds shut and returned to stand beside his desk to wait.
A tentative knock sounded a few seconds later.
"Come in, and close the door behind you," he said tautly.
She did as he asked, but did not step forward.
She kept her head down. "I was told you wanted to see me?"
She was clearly still hoping he hadn't recognised her. How stupid did she think he was?
He said nothing, only glared at her. She visibly quailed. Where was the confident and flirtatious woman of last night? No wonder he hadn't equated this nervous secretary with the sex bomb at the bar.
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" He said heavily at last.
She flinched. "I didn't think I would see you again. I thought you were flying back to the city today."
"I found I had more to do here. Is that the best explanation you've got?"
"I ... No. But ... it's very difficult to explain."
"Try." He commanded coldly.
She risked a glance at his face, then dropped her gaze to her shoes again. "Last night was ... not me. That is, it was me, of course, but I could never have... The real me, that is... I can't speak to strangers very easily. I'm very shy. I've always been this way. And it just began to seem like unless I did something drastic I was never going to... you know... Have any... intercourse..."
She was blushing as red as her hair now. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. How was it possible that the woman who had seduced him so explicitly the night before could now not even bring herself to say the word 'sex'?
"So you... invented an alter ego? A woman with red hair and outrageous sexual confidence?"
She nodded, still embarrassed. "Yes," she whispered.
His anger was evaporating now. He was increasingly fascinated by the extraordinary dichotomy of this woman. And, truth be told, maybe even a little aroused once again. She was standing there so demure and submissive, when he knew, he knew, that underneath that dowdy cardigan were the most amazing breasts he had ever cupped, and that beautiful pink mouth which she could do no more than whisper with now was capable of giving the most voracious wet blow job he had ever experienced.
He found himself taking a step closer to her. Her eyes darted to his face, and he saw wariness, but also sexual awareness there. She might be constrained by her shy 'daytime' persona, but she remembered their night together perfectly well.
He felt his cock stirring.
"Go and stand by my desk, Miss Brown," he ordered coolly.
She hesitated, then with quick short steps she crossed the room to do as he asked.
In a few strides, he was standing directly behind her.
"Bend over the desk, Miss Brown."
There was no hesitation this time. She immediately folded at the waist, resting her elbows on the desktop. He could see her chest moving swiftly as her breathing grew more rapid. His own heart was beating appreciably faster.
"If I am to understand you correctly," he said crisply, sounding like a school master, "You consider yourself too shy and awkward to solicit a sexual relationship. However, if you colour your hair, paint your face, dress up in tight fitting clothes and go out at night, you feel able to take on the personality of a sexually confident femme fatale. But when morning comes, you feel unable to sustain your new personality, and you flee."
