The waiting room was cool and bright, designed to be relaxing, but Felicity's heart was pounding. This was her second meeting with the solicitor – the sexy, smart, suave solicitor – and her nerves were raw.
There was a buzz on the intercom and the dull-looking receptionist clicked at her keyboard for a few seconds before droning, "Miss Johnston, Mr Yates will see you now. Through the double doors, then third on your left."
Felicity stood, and hands shaking, smoothed down her crisp white blouse and tugged her tight black skirt into place. With one last check of her reflection in the long mirror above the reception desk, she took a deep breath and made her way to the solicitor's private office. Pausing outside the imposing wooden door, she knocked.
"Come," called the familiar, authoritative baritone from inside, and she entered the room.
Yates was poised in a large leather chair, behind a great, glossy desk that was bare except for a neat pile of case files and a sleek grey laptop. He stood as she came into the room, and walked round the desk to greet her with a firm handshake and guide her to a carefully positioned chair.
His hand had been large and strong, dry and smooth. She briefly imagined that hand inside her blouse, but banished the thought immediately and tried to concentrate on his words.
"Well, Miss Johnston," said the gorgeous, gorgeous man. (Oh stop it, she thought, stop thinking about how that suit fits just perfectly. Oh dear. Now what was he saying?)
"The case is progressing nicely," Yates continued, picking up her file (HER file, mmm, he had a file with HER name on it) and sorting through the papers within. "I believe there are a number of precedents that closely match our argument, and I have little doubt we will have a successful claim against the builders.
"With a little luck and the right magistrate we should recoup the full amount. We must simply ensure all the paperwork is in order, so let us go through that now. I will try to keep this session brief."
(Brief? No need, it can be as long as you like...)
"Are you alright, Miss Johnston? You seem somewhat distracted."
"Oh, yes, of course," rushed Felicity, with a blush. "Thank you Mr Yates. I'm fine. You were saying?"
"Do you have a copy of the final invoice?" he asked.
She shuffled through her bag and took out the invoice. She leant over the table to pass it to him and, as he reached to take it from her, his hand brushed against hers for just a fraction longer than was necessary. A tingle ran through Felicity's body as she withdrew her hand and tried to compose herself.
Yates went through the papers with her methodically and she nodded in whatever seemed the most appropriate place, while checking to see there was no wedding ring on his left hand, or any mark where one might sometimes be. His voice was hypnotically rich and cultured, and Felicity had to pinch herself surreptitiously under the table on more than one occasion, to prevent her from closing her eyes to enjoy the moment better.
Too soon, the meeting came to a close. Once again, Yates stood and came round the desk. He towered over her as he opened the door and showed her out, with his impeccable manners.
As soon as she was a suitable distance from the office, Felicity hastened her step and practically ran back to her car. She had to get home, to relive every detail of the encounter.
Through the front door, up the stairs, into the bedroom... Felicity couldn't wait even to take her clothes off properly. She unbuttoned her shirt and slipped off her shoes, then sat on the edge of the bed and wriggled out of her black lacy knickers, casting them on to the floor.
She laid back, her hair a dark cloud round her face. Felicity closed her eyes and reached down to slide her skirt up her thighs. Her fingers found her already engorged clitoris and she began to rub it frantically, all the while imagining the sexy solicitor and replaying the touch of his hand on hers. Looking deep into his eyes in her fantasy, she felt her nerves thrumming with excitement. She kept stroking her clit until she could bear it no longer and plunged her fingers into her wet pussy. Then, her fingers slick with her desire, she pulsed against her g spot, until she started to come. She prolonged the blissful rush of orgasm with her left hand, rubbing her clit while her other fingers remained inside her. Finally she felt the waves of pleasure subside and relaxed, stretched out on her bed, with the evening sunlight bathing her in a warm glow.
...
As James Yates left his office that evening, the dull secretary unexpected raised her voice.
"Mr Yates!" she said. "Your client, earlier – she forgot this." She held up an umbrella.
Frustrated, Yates wanted to ask what exactly he was supposed to do about it, but he bit his tongue. Patiently, he enquired: "And which client, exactly, was that?"
"Miss Johnston," she replied, oblivious to his contempt.
"I'll take it to her on my way home," replied Yates, pleased at this unexpected good luck. The sullen secretary, somewhat surprised at this uncharacteristically generous move on her employer's part, handed the umbrella over without another word.
Yates walked briskly to his car, turning over in his mind that afternoon's interview. Miss Johnston had obviously dressed up for him... the sexy skirt with a glimpse of lacy stocking tops, the tight shirt with the hint of lace underneath. Usually he found these women tedious. But there was something different about Felicity. She was an intelligent young lady, and although her mode of dress had been suggestive, her attitude had been professional and her behaviour demure. He was intrigued. And frankly, she was an extremely attractive young woman. Tall and slim, and he could well imagine running his hands through that dark curly hair.
Driving to her house, which was quite honestly not too far out of his way, he briefly imagined her sat on the edge of his desk. He would pull her skirt up and fuck her right there on top of the files and papers. Then he pushed the thought from his mind. Quite, quite unprofessional. And she probably had a boyfriend anyhow.
A few minutes later, Yates parked his black saloon outside the neat suburban semi that was Felicity's home, and walked up to the front door. It took long seconds for her to answer the doorbell, and when she did, he saw her clothes were slightly crumpled, her hair mussed. And quite obviously surprised to see him.
"Oh, Mr Yates," she managed. (Oh my god, oh my god. What is HE doing here? Oh my god.)
He enjoyed her consternation but thought he should put her out of her misery. He held up her umbrella. "You left this – at the office."
"Did I?" (I did, I did... but I never thought you really would bring it round. Maybe that I could come into the office again, but... Oh you gorgeous man.)
"Er, is this a bad time, Miss Johnston?"
"No, oh no, sorry. I'm just a bit..." (A bit slick from touching myself and thinking about you, oh my god and now you're here.)
Yates drank in her dilated pupils and the sheen of perspiration on her. He really wanted to fuck her. Could he prolong this little visit?
"I wondered if, as I'm here, I could inspect the site?" Inspired, thought Yates. I'm really very good.
"The site?" said Felicity. Coming to her senses, she realised what he meant. "Oh, the extension, the building work. Yes of course."
She led him into the house, her heart thumping. Yates followed her through into the hallway, watching her pert buttocks underneath the tight skirt as she walked in front of him.
Felicity showed him the ground floor view, and he tried to make the appropriate noises at the shoddy workmanship.
"But you can't really see the worst of it from down here," she explained. "The roof... you can see that best from upstairs. Would you like to...?"
"Certainly," said Yates, wondering whether she was thinking what he was.
