God's Gift 1: Taking it Stateside

By Terri George


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6 mins


The boring little town I grew up in was atypical and nothing to write home about. Family life much the same as anyone else’s: dad mowing the lawn and washing the car every Saturday, Mum cooking a roast on Sunday. Talk about stultifying snoozefest. Christ, my parents had such small dreams; if they had any at all. Eighteen years was more than enough. Mum cried the day I left, but even as I hugged her goodbye and promised I’d be back in the holidays one word kept repeating over and over in my head: free.

No fucking way was I going to end up earning minimum wage; coming home stinking of grease after a day spent slinging burgers in a red and yellow uniform. So while the other boys in my class mucked about, I actually paid attention. Albeit surreptitiously. No way was I going through five years being labelled class swot either. I managed the delicate balance of academic achievement while still being popular, leaving school with high enough grades to get me into a good university then into a job in the city. It may have only been entry level, but it served its purpose. Fraser & Moore head-hunters know talent when they see it. So just over a year later I found myself junior associate in their mergers & acquisitions department where I became their rising star and have been happy to stay for the six years since. That is until they were taken over by Berger & Schwartz.

The rumblings of changes afoot really went into hyper drive two weeks ago when B&S’s Chief Operations Officer, Tom Wagner came to London. Everyone was shitting themselves. Who would stay and who would go? Fuck, even I was nervous when Tom called me into a one-on-one meeting.

His smile as he told me to take a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk had been reassuring, and my nervousness melted away as I sat.

Tom studied me before taking a breath. “Let’s cut to the chase Sebastian. You’ll be leaving Fraser & Moore.”

Shit. Maybe I’d read his smile wrong. Well, fuck ... Just as well I’d already sent out feelers. I knew Jackson & Browne would jump at the chance to−

“You’re wasted here. We want you in New York.”

Oh-kay. I let that sink in for a moment ...

New York eh? I could definitely go for that.

“Our HR department will handle all the paperwork − work visas etcetera. All you have to do is say yes and pack your bags.”

There was a little more to it than that, but in essence he was right.

“Your initial contract will be for a year, but if all goes well − and I have no reason to believe it won’t − we’ll extend it, indefinitely.”

Second only to this fair city and possibly Paris, New York is absolutely my favourite place to be. Phil’s birthday long-weekend last March had barely been long enough for us to scratch the surface of all the city that never sleeps has to offer. But a whole year ..? That should be long enough.

“I appreciate I’ve thrown this at you out of nowhere ... ”

Yeah, like there’s anything keeping me here.

“But we want you. Hell, I want you in New York Sebastian.”

It was clear from Tom’s tone he was reading my silence as hesitancy ... Good.

It’s never wise to show your hand too early so I took a breath before exhaling it slowly. “It’s a big move.”

“It is ... So what will it take to get you there?”

Bugger me. The COO of a fortune one hundred company was offering me carte blanche to name my price ... Interesting.

Still I said nothing, just ‘hmmed’ as I gave the impression I was actually pondering my answer. As if I was ever likely to refuse, but it wouldn’t hurt for him to think I might. If he was so hot to get me stateside he was going to have to make it worth my while.

Glancing at the stapled sheets of paper Tom slid across the desk, my gaze registered the B&S logo at the top of the front page.

“I think you’ll like what we’re offering. Sign it and you could be in New York the week after next.”

I picked up the papers and carefully read through the terms of contract ... Fuck me.

Only a fool would have said no.

If necessary I would have insisted that if he expected me to haul my arse all the way over the Atlantic, I sure as shit better be doing it first class, but I didn’t have to. Tom wanted me; big time. And he was prepared to give me anything I wanted to get me.

As deals go, mine is sweeter than a chocolate coated doughnut with sprinkles: a thirty-five percent increase in salary; I get to keep my UK holiday allocation of five weeks rather than the measly two the American’s get, and a swanky apartment rent free.

So with no worries about slumming it in business class, or God-fucking-forbid with the sad schmucks in cattle, I happily hand over my luggage at the premium check-in desk. After which I head into the flagship lounge where I cross the sleek space to the service counter and grab a glass of champagne. Then sit my arse down in a leather lounger, put my feet up on the foot rest and relax with the FT.

I can’t help my quiet chuckle as I read the article. It was always going to be front page news and send ripples of unease through the business world. If a company as long-standing and prestigious as Fraser & Moore can be the subject of a hostile takeover, who’s next? But it’s not my problem anymore, so who gives a shit?

Those left behind are just jealous. He may have been smiling, but I heard the edge in Simon Poffit’s “jammy bastard”. Serves him right. If he wasn’t such a slacker, relying on daddy’s name and a family lineage that stretches back as far as William the fucking Conqueror rather than actually doing a proper fucking job, it could have been him sitting here, feet up with a second glass of complimentary bubbly. But it isn’t. It’s me. So fuck him.

It’s a shame I’m not flying with Virgin Airways. There’s something about a woman in red. Not in a soppy-arsed Chris de Burgh way. Fucking hell that song has to be the biggest pile of shit ever recorded. No, I mean the other way. The way that brings to mind the red of a woman’s lips when she’s aroused ...

Have to say though, the flight attendants waiting to greet us are all pretty enough, especially the little blonde on the end of the line. I give her my trademark knicker-dropping smile and lucky me she’s the one who shows me to my seat in the first class cabin.

There’s a definite twinkle in those deep blue eyes of hers as she looks down at me. “Can I get you a drink before we takeoff?”

Those two glasses of champagne are starting to muss my head a little so a third on an empty stomach probably isn’t a good idea.

I hold her gaze for a moment before answering. “A coffee would be nice.”

Her gaze flicks to my mouth before reconnecting with mine. “How do you take it?”

You? Hard and fast.

She licks her lips. “Just as it comes?”

The little minx. There was no missing the ever-so-slight emphasis she put on that last word.

I’d take it however she wanted to give it.

I crank up my smile. “Always.”

From the twitch of her lips and the slight narrowing of her eyes, she gets exactly what I mean.

Something tells me this flight could be all kinds of fun later, but then I’ve never had a problem pulling the birds. Extricating myself from a couple of them has proven a bit tricky though. What gets me is I’m up front and very clear right from the off so there are no misconceptions. As long as you don’t expect me to hang around for coffee the next morning or make promises we both know I have no intention of keeping, we’ll get along just fine and you’ll have a great time. A fucking awesome time. I’ll get you wetter than the rainy season in Mumbai and come harder than you ever thought possible. I pride myself on it.

But it’s a one-time deal ... with the occasional exception.

Ah, Simone. Paris is a beautiful city, but she made that two-week holiday something truly special. Her enthusiasm knew no bounds ...

Sitting outside the little café I’d carefully chosen on my first day, I sipped my coffee as I took in the sights. There’s nothing like people watching − or women watching to be more precise. And there’s nothing like women watching in Paris.

Of course I spotted her the moment she approached the café and took a seat at a table two over from mine. I’d have to have been blind not to ... Christ, her legs went on forever.

And I wanted them wrapped around my neck.

I replaced my coffee cup in the saucer and let my gaze find hers.

She lowered her head breaking the connection, embarrassed at having been caught looking. Or so I thought ...

Then she looked up again, gazing right back at me through her lashes, curling her mouth into an oh-so-inviting small smile.


So I eased myself up out of my chair and strolled over. Who the fuck wouldn’t?

An hour later we burst through the door of her apartment. Our mouths barely breaking contact as she made short work of striping out of her chic little Jackie-O style dress and heels as my clothing joined hers on the hallway floor.

Grabbing fistfuls of my hair, she linked her stocking-clad legs around my hips as I lifted her off her feet.

She ripped her mouth from mine long enough to pant out, “Boudoir” before clamping her lips to mine again.

Her apartment was small so finding her bedroom wasn’t difficult and I tossed her down on the mattress.

She made a little ‘oomph’ sound as she landed.

Bugger me if the greedy look on her face as she lay there, legs already spread, didn’t get me even harder, if that was possible.

Her elongated ‘mmm’ as her gaze dropped from my face to my dick when I stripped off my Calvin Klein trunks sent a pulse of anticipatory pleasure bumping down my spine.

Not to mention the downright wicked glint in her eyes as she flung her arms above her head and opened her legs a little wider.

Baise moi.”

I didn’t need my A-Level French to translate her moaned request.

I’d fuck her alright, but there was no rush and I wanted to take my time. Wanted to explore every inch of her. Wanted to work her into a whimpering mess before finally giving her what she wanted.

And when I did ... Christ, there was just something about how she breathed my name as I pushed deep inside her. How she drew out every last syllable: See-bas-tee-arrn.

And so began possibly the best two weeks of my life.

Even though she left me in bed each morning to go to work, we more than made up for it most lunchtimes when she’d pop home for a not-so-quickie, and every night. Starting about a nanosecond after she slammed the front door closed on her return.

Fuck me; they must have heard her screams of “Oh putain, oui!” all the way down in Nice.

It was the dichotomy of her effortless Parisian elegance and the crudeness of her demands for me to suck “plus fort” as she rammed my face into her connasse that took my breath away.

Over the fourteen days of my stay we defiled every surface in her pristine apartment; including the tiny balcony.

But all good things as they say ...



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