He watched as the juice ran from her lips, down her chin and dripped on to the table below. Her lips, redder than the flesh she devoured, sank into the fruit as if she could tear through its skin without the aid of teeth. She made no move to wipe away the sticky glaze that started to coat her face.
Adam wiped his fingers and glanced down at the ham and salad sandwich in front of him. The pickle he had removed lay green and soggy on the edge of the plate. He had meant to specify "no pickle" when ordering, but he'd been distracted. The prospect of the one o'clock meeting with David Grey, overseas investment director, had been haunting him for days. He had already run through his presentation a hundred times in his head. He knew how important this meeting was – they'd told him often enough.
Discarded rind littered her plate. Her fingers stroked the mound of remaining fruit. She caressed each slowly; touching, squeezing, exploring before selecting one and raising it to her lips. She closed her eyes inhaling its scent; drawing it deeply into her. Her mouth was open, parted lips dark pink, glistening with saliva. Adam bit into his sandwich. It hung limply from his fingers, the pink ham flaccid in its spongy white casing. His boss expected him to do well today and he'd made an art of living according to the expectations of others. The expected was safe. He had everything covered.
She ran her tongue over the rough surface of the peach, grooming it with the cat-like sweeps; teasing at the fur, working the skin of the ripened fruit harder and harder until it began to leak. With a deft flick of her tongue she caught the escaping drops, tilting her head back to consume the yielding flesh.
Adam cut the remainder of his sandwich carefully in half. The next triangles reminded him what his charts should be ready by now. He had left detailed instructions with reprographic. He had spent ages trying to combine retail sales and advertising expenditure on one graph. "Neat graphs, neat mind" – Training Manual Volume 3.
