Free The Efficiency Expert by Portia Da Costa

The Efficiency Expert

Portia Da Costa
     
    N.B. Please be aware that this excerpt contains sensual content that is only suitable for adult readers who are comfortable with frank language and descriptions of erotic scenarios
     
    Oh no,
he's
here. The efficiency expert. He's in my favorite bar on my favorite stool, just when I thought we'd got rid of him.
    I'm supposed to be here celebrating. The company's efficiency review is finally over, and I've kept my job by the skin of my teeth. I thought that hyena of a consultant or troubleshooter or whatever the hell he is would be long gone by now, and good riddance. But what do I find? He's still here and drinking in the very place where I'm about to toast his departure.
    Noah Stevens, that self-same efficiency troubleshooter stroke corporate carnivore. The very monster everybody's so glad to see the back of, even if he is unbearably cute and sexy in his stern, almost machine-like sort of way.
    He doesn't look stern tonight though. Or even remotely mechanical. In fact he looks as weary as hell, almost shattered somehow, as if he's been punched in the gut by fate. Could this be a pang of unexpected sympathy I'm feeling? Work wise, he's been beyond a nightmare, but somehow with shoulders slumped, his blond hair a bit ruffled, and a slightly rubbed-out look about his eyes, not to mention what looks like a quadruple vodka in front of him, he looks strangely vulnerable. Kind of tender and touchable. Definitely in need of a hug.
    Shall I run for it? Get discreetly out of here, and join the festivities with the other survivors? I'm tempted, but something about the line of his body intrigues and stirs me. I must admit, I have a few types, and as a Mr. Sharp Suit Corporate, he's not really one of them. And yet, even though he's made my life a hell of uncertainty these past few weeks, I do -- reluctantly -- fancy him something rotten.
    He turns from the bar and makes my decision for me.
    "Hi, Susie. Are you drinking?" He taps the stool next to the one where I usually sit, "Have one on me. I think I owe you one, if not three or four."
    Well, ain't that the truth!
    "Okay. Yes, that'd be great." I slide onto the stool. Up close, he looks quite different from the barracuda of the office. The jacket of his sharp business suit is on the stool beyond, and the shirt beneath looks deliciously soft and moulds to the shape of his shoulders and chest. His broad deep chest. I've never actually seen him out of his tailored corporate armor before, but he's a beautiful male treat now that he's revealed to me a bit of what previously I've only speculated about.
    His thighs are nice too, strong-looking as he adjusts his position on the stool slightly. As he signals to the barman, I can't help wondering what his cock is like. Is he big? He looks as if he might be, but it's difficult to get a clear view without being caught blatantly ogling him. The way he shifted in his seat just then makes me speculate that he might have a hard on. For me? Just like that? Such wild, untamed sexiness seems totally at odds with his until-now strictly controlled persona.
    I request what he's having and get a double gin, over ice. Not my usual tipple, but it's somehow both head-clearing and intoxicating. A bit like Noah himself really.
    We clink glasses and we stare into each other's eyes. His look reddened by fatigue, and perhaps something else, and the fact that he allows me time to note this is like a pact between us. We've barely spoken about anything other than work, but now, everything seems fair game.
    "Well, you look worn out. Terrible in fact." It's a lie. For all his fatigue, he still looks fabulous. "Must be hard work threatening people's jobs and putting the fear of God into them. Surely you're not feeling pangs of guilt?" I swig my gin, and watch his pink tongue sweep out and lick droplets of his own drink from his lips. My pussy clenches convulsively. Shockingly. The image of that tongue sweeping between my labia