As in Chapter 11, Steve is the narrator in materials in regular type and Sandy is the narrator in materials in italics.
*
I awoke the next morning to the most delicious sensation. My naked wife had pushed the sheet aside and was on her knees next to me leaning forward sucking on my rapidly growing cock. The sun was shining in through a window so I knew it was well past the time when she would normally leave for work.
"Oh," I groaned. "That's a lovely way to wake up. Is this a privilege of being the spouse of a newly-anointed partner of KPMI?"
She laughed and pulled back from my cock. She had leaned back so she was sitting on her haunches with both hands wrapped around my now fully-erect cock. "No silly. It's just Saturday, and new partners don't work on Saturdays, at least not the first couple of Saturdays while they are busy fucking their spouse's brains out." She was stroking my prick with a twisting motion. The sensation was fabulous.
"But don't get used to it," she continued. "Day after tomorrow is Monday and it's back to the grind."
"Oh, you mean fucking strangers in the stairwells of London office buildings?"
"It was just one stranger in the stairwell of one London office building. The rest of the time I was working—well, most of the time."
"Oh, is that all?" I asked
"Now don't get jealous."
Now it was my turn to laugh. "Not to worry. I'm not. All I really want is to hear all the raunchy details of what happened when you met Liam's wife. Did you seduce her?"
She chuckled and rubbed her palm, coated with my slippery precum over the head of my cock.
"Oh, fuck! You're going to make me cum."
"I know. That's what I want. I want to see you squirt." She resumed her twisting stroking of my cock, using the precum she had scraped off the head of my cock for additional lube. Then she slowed her pace, deliberately holding me back.
"But first, I'm going to tell you about my evening with Liam and Fiona, and the others."
"Others? There were others?"
"Ummm. Yes. Let me tell you about it while I stroke this delicious-looking cock."
I lay back and let her tell her story while she massaged my prick.
I got to Le Gavroche a few minutes early. I explained to the maître d' that I was looking for Mr. Rutledge, but that I was perhaps a bit early. He confirmed, without looking at his book, that Mr. Rutledge was expected tonight and then said, "Let me take you to his table," as he turned to lead me into the dining room. My my, I thought. Being an actuary must pay better than being an accountant if he has his own table at Le Gavroche. This is one of the finest restaurants in London.
The table was a modest-sized oblong set in a semi-booth, upholstered in a pleated, soft green velvet that matched the color of the upholstered walls; the table cloth and napkins a dazzling white cotton draped to the floor before the table and stopping short of the seat behind the table. It was set for three people tonight arrayed across the velvet seat, although I noticed that the other tables like it were set for two. Clearly my presence at Mr. Rutledge's table was anticipated. This was an establishment that did not miss a detail, but then I guess that is how a restaurant gets two Michelin Stars.
Uncertain as to which setting to claim in advance of my host's arrival, I perched a bit nervously on one end of the seat. It wasn't like me to be this nervous in a social situation, but today had been more than a bit unusual. It isn't every day that you seduce a stranger in a business meeting, have hurried sex with him in the building stairwell on a meeting break, and then have him invite you to dinner with his wife. How much had he told her, I wondered? He said he had told her about us, but had he really? Had he told her what we had done in the stairwell and what I had done to entice him there? If so, what was her reaction? Were we going to have a pleasant dinner or was Fiona going to show up and create a scene in this classy restaurant? Or were the three of us going to dance around the issue all evening without acknowledging the elephant in the room?
I badly needed a drink to calm my frazzled nerves. I was unconsciously tapping my foot behind the drapery of the tablecloth as I waited. A waiter soon appeared and took my order for a cocktail, which was greatly appreciated given my nervousness about meeting Liam's wife. He returned promptly with my gin and tonic and I inhaled a good deal of it in a single gulp, thinking I should have ordered straight gin.
A few minutes after my drink arrived I saw Liam and Fiona arrive at the maître d' station. They were warmly greeted, without any reference to the reservations book, and promptly led to the table. Liam still looked "tweedy" but was dressed in a different three-piece tweed suit than he had worn earlier. They were greeted by several of the serving staff as they walked across the room, and they took the time to return the greeting in kind. They were clearly well known at Le Gavroche—"regulars" as we would say back in Manhattan.
Fiona's appearance was not at all what I had expected, not that I had a basis for any expectation since Liam had told me nothing about her beyond her name. It's odd how sometimes you can develop a detailed image of a person before you meet them. Part of it, of course was her very, very British name. I was expecting a somewhat plump and short middle-aged English woman with soft brown locks, and rosy cheeks, dressed . . . well I don't know how I expected her to dress, but not as she was.
Instead the woman who walked in with Liam was a quite tall, at least 5-11, taller than me and slightly taller than Liam. She was very lean, with an olive complexion and black hair pulled severely back from her face. There was a lengthy braid hanging down her back nearly to her waist. She wore little make-up. Her cheekbones were high and her face thin, as though she had been a fashion model in her youth. I guessed by the tiny eye wrinkles that she was likely in her early forties, perhaps a few years younger than Liam. She had an elegant walk that further suggested a modeling background.
Her dress was long and all black, with a plunging neckline. When she turned to speak to one of the waiters, I saw that the dress was backless, and that there was a slit up one side that went nearly to her hip, exposing as she walked a long, shapely leg. Her shoes were flats, heels being unnecessary at her height. Her bust was perhaps a bit bigger than mine. The sides of each breast were exposed by the plunging neckline of the dress. Her jewelry consisted of a heavy silver and turquoise bracelet and a silver thunderbird hanging from a fine silver chain. There was no wedding ring set. Her face was severe as she walked across the floor, but when she greeted someone her smile was broad and, well, the best word is electric. It lit up the room. The clothing style was vintage Georgia O'Keefe, but with more skin exposed. And then there was that occasional Julia Roberts smile that offset the severity of the dress style.
So, I thought, Liam has a trophy wife. I was far from correct in that conclusion. In reality Liam and Fiona were equals who managed their relationship with a great deal of individual freedom and independence.
