She’d always thought that accountants were boring, wore brown suits to prove their reluctance to try out new things, followed rules, ticked boxes and never laughed.
The man she’d met in the hotel said he was an accountant so, when he asked her out for a drink, she didn’t hold out much hope for a night of steamy-hot passion or any other form of excitement, really.
Still, when you’re all alone, in one of those big hotels indistinguishable from their competitors, in London, immediately after the break-up of a long-term relationship, even an accountant would do.
She couldn’t face another night of telly, or staring at the décor in that bar where they all thought she was a hooker. That’s the trouble with men, she thought. If you were on your own you were obviously looking for it.
He was easy on the eye, even if he didn’t wear a brown suit. Since you ask, it was navy, with a sombre silk tie. He was kind of cute – big, innocent blue eyes surrounded by gorgeously long lashes that she’d have killed for. He had been smitten by her, or by lust, or maybe even lust for her. No matter; it was a good starting point.
He brazenly waited for her to order the champagne and charge it to her account before putting his hand on her knee and moving it slowly, seductively, up her leg to her thigh. At the same time he stared deeply into her eyes and his stare told her how beautiful she was. A fact she knew already. Her indistinguishable room beckoned to both of them.
The accountant neatly folded his clothes over the back of the chair and placed his mobile and keys in his shiny black shoes. Now entirely naked, she could admire his muscular frame and note that he was rather interested in the outcome of the evening. As, of course, was she.
The foreplay and the ball-game were as expected. Good, given how well he was endowed. The after-play was different; he didn’t fall asleep straight away. No, he told her lots of jokes instead. They were not politically correct but they were funny. He wouldn’t allow her to speak; he was captivated by her laughter. He was not the sort of accountant she’d expected and the night was far more entertaining than she had hoped for. Eventually, they slept.
When he awoke, the accountant had a desperate urge to pee and, as he stumbled to the bathroom, he realised she wasn’t in her room. In fact, he wasn’t in her room. And neither were his belongings. Hell, that wasn’t funny.
She was sitting in First Class on the 5:27 from Paddington. She’d ditched most of his belongings, naturally, but the wallet had been intriguing. Made from beautifully soft leather, it was well-endowed, just like him. Or, so she had thought. It’s amazing what you can do with old newspapers.
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