Chapter 3

Ithought maybe I’d messed things up with her after that night, thought at best we’d put it down to a drunken fumble and she’d move on with her life, ignore me back at work. At worst, I’d be hauled up to HR and given my marching orders. But neither of those things happened.

She’d actually messaged me the next day. I had a vague recollection of us exchanging numbers in the pub, but hadn’t been sure until that message dropped in.

So, I’m guessing you’ve worked out I’m not great at holding my drink. Everything from last night is a little fuzzy, and my head feels like someone is operating a pneumatic drill in it. Oh, that’s surprising… I can still spell pneumatic with a hangover. Anyway, just wanted to check we’re okay, you know … after you walked me home. I didn’t want things to be awkward at work. I was so totally wasted, I’m so sorry.

I’d read it over and over. Had she just given me the brush off? It read that way, didn’t it? I had to be sensible, of course it was a brush off. She’s way out of my league. Though I wasn’t really sure what she was sorry about, I’d been the one with my hand in her underwear. The message had made me smile though, the rather random thought popped there in the middle, it was very her. She did it when she talked, so to see it carry over into her messaging was funny, charming even. I’d messaged straight back, reassured her we were all good, that I’d been far more drunk than I had in a long time, and that I was sorry too. She couldn’t feel bad about anything then. And we could both move on.

The worry of whether things would be awkward between us played on my mind for a while though, but when her next message pinged through just fifteen minutes later, I knew we were going to be okay. We were at least going to make it beyond the boss who flirted with one of his workers cliché, anyway.

So, I was wondering if you meant it when you said you’d be up for showing me around. I know you offered the other night, but you were pretty drunk. I think we got on quite well, and I suppose it wouldn’t be terrible hanging out with you again. And if guilt works on you… I’m a woman alone in a new city where I’ve not made any friends yet. Don’t make me take Dull Derek up on his offer to take me out. ;)

Dull Derek had asked her out? Well, he could fuck right off. Regardless of the fact she just wanted to be friends, I still felt protective of her, liked her a lot. Spending time with her wasn’t going to be a hardship. Not at all.

And it wasn’t. We’ve been out a couple of times since that night, and no, nothing has happened, nothing except we’ve enjoyed each other’s company. As friends. There have been moments, times we’ve both said something a little flirty, and I’ve wondered about it, whether I should have taken my shot properly, asked her out, not fingered her on her front porch. But it was all in the moment, and although neither of us have mentioned it since we’ve been spending time together, I’m still pretty positive, from the noises she made and the way she responded to me, that she enjoyed every second.

However, the fact remains, today, she’s still not arrived at work.

It’s already been too long since I’ve seen her. Friday afternoon it was, gave her a smile as everyone filed out, and now at 9.30am on Monday morning, I’m not just missing her, but also getting concerned. She’s half hour late. She’s never been late. Not once.

There’s nothing in the online staff absence reports, no time off booked, no reason I can see that she’s not here. But there is something, something that’s eating away at me with every passing minute. Last night.

As my heart-rate skyrockets with worries about whether she’s okay, and now with the added anxiety of last night picking at my brain, I pull out my phone, check my messages for what must be the two-hundredth time, and when there’s nothing, I give in and call her.

It rings. And rings and rings.

Fuck, it is last night, it’s got to be. We were both sitting in our respective living rooms, messaging back and forth about the programmes we were watching, something we do a lot, just seem to seek out each other’s company even when we’re not together, and an advert had come on for a new series of a show I loved. I’d messaged her immediately, said we had to watch it. When she confessed she’d not seen the first two series and she didn’t think it was something she’d like, I’d jokingly messaged that she had to watch, that I was her boss, her superior, so she had to do as she was told.

Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, sir.

I’d read that text about thirty times, sat there alone in my house and growled, instantly turned on, instantly taken back to our Easter night out. I was torn then, between flirting and saying more, or holding back for the sake of the friendship we’d formed.

And what a friendship it was. She just wasn’t like other women, she got me entirely, understood me, we were like two puzzle pieces that completed each other, a perfect fit. I had thought carefully before responding, tried to figure out if I was willing to risk all that for a long-hidden kink. One I’d never dared let out, one that, for some reason, I’d divulged to her within one evening. Even when drunk, I’d never blurted that out before. But then, maybe she’d never admitted to being okay with spanking before, never let her submissive side show. Maybe hers was just the drink. But there was definitely something in her eyes that night. Maybe like recognised like.

You remember what happens when you call me sir, right?

It was one text, just testing the waters, that’s what I told myself. And if she didn’t bite, I’d apologise and pack up this fantasy, stick to being just friends. Well, what I thought about in the privacy of my own home was up to me, but she’d never know how I felt if she wasn’t feeling it too.

I do. I remember it very well.

She hadn’t shut me down, hadn’t told me to back off, so I’d sent another message.

It’s run through my mind a few hundred times, actually.

It was her reply though, it had the semi I’d sprung when she called me sir turning to steel.

And what else has run through that mind of yours, boss man?

Now that was properly flirting, surely. There was no mistaking it.

So many things. Every time I see you at work, I’m sitting there dreaming about having you in my office, on my desk, over it, giving you one of those spankings we were talking about. Have you been a naughty girl, Kara?

I worried I’d gone too far, and from the silence that followed, I guessed I had.