Page 15 of Silver Fox Grump

“Mr Blackwood?” A few seconds later, she timidly peeks around the door as though I might turn her away.

I don’t return her bright, hopeful smile, and just flick my fingers to indicate she should enter.

“It’s about the report on the Parkside development. I printed it and brought it to you.”

My brain is so taken up with the fact she’s in my office looking fresh and beautiful as a summer day that I only nod at the spurious pretext. I hate reading on paper, and always have things emailed.

She closes the door and smooths her skirt down nervously. She’s wearing a fussy little blouse and a flicky skirt in a deep-blue.

It’s pure torture to see and not peel those clothes from her body. What makes it even worse is watching her choose the outfit in the morning and put it on, then wear it never knowing I’ve seen it already, and see her take it off again. All without touching her.

Maisie comes to stand before my desk and I—as ever—think of bending her over my desk and fucking her until she’s come at least three times, and we’re both exhausted.

I manage to restrain myself.

Another successful day as a stalker.

“What can I do for you?” I ask mildly. I sit back and don’t quite look her in the eye, like she’s the sun. “Something to do with your father?”

It’s good to remind myself of why she’s so off-limits; that she could be wrapped in that white and red plastic caution tape that says “do not enter”, “danger of death”, and “these orgasms will literally kill you”.

That seems to jolt her, and she blinks. Then my innocent girl licks her lips. “Mr Blackwood, I need your help.”

Adrenaline surges in me. She needs me? I’m there.

If this is about a photocopier, I’m going to be really disappointed.

“Something to do with work?”

“Sort of.” She gives a half giggle, nervous and breathy.

There’s no chair on the other side of my desk, because I don’t encourage my visitors to stay too long, as a rule. So I have the torture of seeing her shift from foot to foot. I’d like to make her comfortable. Instead, I have this mask of sour temper and callous disregard for anyone’s feelings, but since she’s been in my life the mask itches and chafes, and part of me wishes I could remove it.

Not with her. I can’t take off the mask with Maisie. I can only be the beast. The stalker. The bad man hiding in the shadows.

Just like loneliness doesn’t wash off, the mask of indifference can’t slip.

“Go on,” I say, when she hesitates.

“You know my father doesn’t allow me to go out?”

I give a single nod. A totally reasonable rule.

“I want some experience of life.” She looks up at me with those doe eyes and I can feel the slippery slope argument.

“Mmm.” What has this got to do with me?

“And since you helped me with a job, I thought you might help me with this too. I’m not asking you to let me go out in London, or anything like that. But you could do this. Yourself.”

“What is ‘this’, Miss Matthews?” I rumble. But I know. The sight from last night is tattooed onto my retinas as surely as the symbols of Morden are tattooed onto my skin.

My girl is horny.

Still, I hold my breath.

“I’ve never been kiss?—”

“No,” I respond before she even finishes saying the word.