MY FIRST WEEK at University, I could pinch myself about actually being here, given my recent meeting with Mr. Wilson, and I’m on cloud nine. I had initially thought Mr. Sinfully Sexy might have disclosed my lie, not that he was specific as to what he thought I was lying about, and I certainly wasn’t going to volunteer the information. This line of thinking, however, would at best make me paranoid, and at worst mean I am suffering from an over inflated sense of self-importance, so I was relieved it was neither. Mr. Wilson informed me that the IT bursary I had applied for had been successful. Colour me shocked! I didn’t really think I was eligible for any type of assistance as a part-time student, but I had applied all the same, because I also didn’t have the luxury of not at least trying for some assistance, and an upgrade on my ancient laptop was decades overdue. That said I wasn’t sure if what I felt was joy or just a huge sense of surprise, but I found myself inappropriately hugging Mr. Wilson at the news. Like I said, I was on cloud nine!
I am a little intimidated, sitting high in the Gods of this ultra-modern lecture theatre, and the blank page of my notepad isn’t helping. I smile to myself, because now when I get the IT grant money, I can buy a decent laptop, like all the students around me are sporting. Mine takes around two days to warm up and weighs the same as a small car. In other respects, though, I look like a typical student. At twenty, I am perhaps two years older than most of the students and five years younger than is permitted on the part-time program, but most people wouldn’t notice, and that might be why I was so taken back when Mr. Stone called it at our first meeting.
The theatre is starting to fill, and I am lucky that my choice in footwear resembles a mountain boot with crampons, as the angle of climb to my seat is perilously steep, and I am hugely respectful of the girls who attempt the climb in heels. Glancing around there does seem to be a disproportionate number of females and not dressed in what seems to be the standard asexual garb, but more like that of a catwalk or night out clubbing. Strange.
This series of lectures was a real coup for the University, leading high profile business people giving an ‘up close and personal’ guide to Entrepreneurship. The Lectures are mandatory for mature students in the Business faculty, but you would have to be an idiot not to take this opportunity. Each student had to give a biography and an outline detailing what they expected to gain from the program. I had never heard of that before, but perhaps it’s not so strange, important people wanting to make sure they were not wasting their time. Still, given that this was all extra work for each student here, and it is an evening lecture, I am surprised to see the theatre almost full. An email reminder was sent earlier in the day to emphasize a seven p.m. start – PROMPT.
Although no one person is shouting, the general level of noise has risen to something akin to an airplane take-off. My course has a weighted nine to one ratio of males to females, and I find I am surrounded on all sides by the men from my course. I have introduced myself as the part-time mature student, which in itself seems to make me non-threatening and extremely approachable. As such I have easily made friends with anyone kind enough to sit next to me, and many have. I can’t make out any specific conversation, and I don’t want to add to the noise, so I continue to gaze at my page. It is no longer blank as my habit, which I find both relaxing and distracting, covers the edges of the page, from top right to bottom left. A large intricate doodle of interweaving petals, teardrops and crested waves flow together. My pencil hovers mid pattern as a loud click cuts through the noise, and I quickly look up to see… Oh God, my stomach clenches, and I feel an instant heat between my legs, crap and crap again. Daniel Stone slowly walks from the now locked theatre door to take center stage. It’s seven p.m. on the dot.
All right, that would explain the full house. God, that man is stunning, even from up here. His presence commands the silence of the room. Why didn’t this information click with me earlier? I even saw his name on the screen. Nothing. Oh, I know why, because I have been on cloud nine since my windfall. I feel the plummet from said cloud as my mouth drops open, and I gasp. That’s embarrassing, no wait, it’s not. I’m up in the Gods, hidden in a crowd of eager faces, too high to be heard. Mike, on my left and Pete, in front, however, both turn with questioning looks. I quickly smile, shake my head, and tap my throat, frowning a little to indicate I am experiencing a tracheal problem. Sam, on my left, is unaffected by my dramatics, as he has yet to remove his earphones. I nod my head to indicate all eyes to the front and hope it will help the gentle rise of heat in my cheeks.
“Don’t worry, I will unlock the door so you can leave, but I am just not going to pretend to tolerate lateness.” His voice is quiet, but holds the room’s attention. I give a light laugh and quickly slap my hand to my mouth. I thought it was a joke. I mean, why did I think it would be a joke? He’s just locked the door, for Christ sake! He is obviously serious, and, yes, I was the only one to laugh. His fierce glare fixes on mine, and I shrink in my seat, which has certainly helped the blushing. My throat feels dry, and I swear the whole room can hear me struggle to swallow. I can’t look away. His eyes look black from here, dark and deadly, but I know they are intense pools of crystal blue. A flush prickles my skin, and the heat building at my core is fighting to match that on my face. I try not to squirm in my seat, only giving the slightest unavoidable movement and curling my toes tightly. I know he can’t see those from there. His face certainly shows no signs of recognition from our previous awkward encounter, which is definitely a good thing.
The door rattles, and Mr. Stone breaks his gaze to turn toward the noise. The two small square windows in the double doors frame the faces of a couple of striking girls, their bright blonde hair pulled back to expose severe make-up and huge smiles.
Mr. Stone smiles, but even from here I can see it doesn’t reach his eyes. He strides toward the door and reaches up to unlock it, pausing, he then pulls the blind down over the windows and returns to the stage. If he didn’t have the complete attention of the room before, he does now. Beside me, Sam very carefully removes his earphones and glances at me with wide eyes. I am sure my eyes are just as wide, and I give him a very quick and nervous smile as a response.
The harsh lighting on the stage does nothing to diminish the impact of this man. He is tall, probably around six two, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. He is immaculately dressed in a fitted dark navy suit, pale blue shirt and no tie. His inky black, glossy hair is rough styled; it spikes and flops, slightly long, brushing the collar of his shirt. He rakes his hand through it and gathers his notes. His face is striking, but up close it’s breath-stealing, sharp angles and shadows emanating intensity and power. I imagine fixing on his eyes as I explore the tight feel of his abdomen, flat and hard; the muscles on his back flexing as my hands crawl their way up his body to his thick shaggy hair, only to grip and pull. Christ, get a grip, Bets! I shift in my seat, the warmth in my face moving decidedly southwards. Thinking about my conversation with Mags, if I decide to do Late Night Calls, maybe I wouldn’t need imagination if I had a muse. My lips curl at the thought as I ponder the prospect of Mr. Stone as my private muse; either way having a sneaky personal picture of the delicious Mr. Stone is a must. I just have to get close, again.
His introduction is pretty standard information that anyone could and probably did Google. Something, I am thinking, I should most definitely have done, but in my defense, I didn’t expect to see him again. Daniel Edward Stone is the CEO of Stone, International; a group of companies, which started as an IT intranet software provider and expanded into other IT specialties, then rapidly into other areas: Telecommunication, Specialist Security Providers, Media, Entertainment, property, even a chain of hotels and nightclubs. In the past, he has provided funding for research and start-up companies identified through this University, and more specifically the Entrepreneurial program. The parent company is global, and he is the sole shareholder; his not so many fingers are in a lot of pies. I understand it’s highly unusual for a company that size not to have shareholders or a board of directors. Maybe he just doesn’t like sharing or is just a massive control freak, but, on second thought, there is no reason why he can’t be both.
His ‘brief’ description does go into a bit more detail than a Wiki page, and he is not afraid to sing his own praises. It’s lucky he did lock the door. I don’t think there is any more room now that his ego has landed. I can’t help but roll my eyes, which wouldn’t have been so bad had I not made a kind of involuntary humph noise just to highlight my action. I close my eyes momentarily, only to open them to the seriously hot scowl of Mr. Stone. To my credit, I hold his gaze, careful not to give in to my increasing urge to squirm. I don’t even acknowledge the subtle shifting of my neighbours as they try and distance themselves from the troublemaker. My cheeks do flame though, and just when I am about to cave and drop my gaze, he turns away, the corners of his mouth giving way to a wolfish grin.
He stands at the lectern and picks up a folder filled with lose leaf sheets of paper, his fingers numbly pick through to pluck one from the rest.
“Miss Thorne…What are you doing here?” His deep voice is barely raised, but he could be using a bull horn for the shock I feel at the unexpected question. His tone is clipped, cold, almost angry. I don’t know how to answer, like I am suddenly mute. I simply shake my head embarrassed and mortified with the sudden shift of focus in the room.
“Would you like me to repeat the question?” He raises his brow and stares deeply into my eyes, which I manage to hold, but I can feel my face flame. Why is he picking on me? We’ve barely started, and he has singled me out with his accusatory tone. The tension is palpable as the whole room waits for my answer. Mr. Stone, however, merely taps his fingers lightly on the lectern and looks amused at my discomfort.
“No, I don’t want you to repeat the question. I just didn’t think stating the obvious was necessary, but I see that it is. I’ll speak slowly… I am here for the Entrepreneur Lectures, Mr. Stone.” I know my face is radiating enough to heat a small family home right now, but I am pleased I have progressed from mute to indignant.
“Hmm, thank you Miss Thorne but let me be more specific. Why are you here? I have your biography and I am asking why are you here…specifically?” He holds my biography in his hand like it’s contagious, and the distain on his face has made my brief but righteous indignation vanish. I hate him so much right now, but I can’t find any words to answer his question, let alone tell him he is currently starring in my recurring school days’ nightmare. I might as well be naked, too, just to complete my torture. “Allow me… Does this look like a reality show? Are there hidden cameras? No? Do you think a background story will endear you to me? Do you think writing a wish list is appropriate? Do I look like Santa?” He steps down from the stage and has started to walk up the aisle toward me. I hold my knees to stop them trembling, and my knuckles are white from the effort.
“No,” I manage to speak. It’s not loud, but it is audible, because the room is silent.
“No?” He repeats, but doesn’t stop his ascension.
“I didn’t realize it was supposed to be a referenced journal. It’s just a biography.” I tip my chin and hold his gaze. He has reached the end of my row and my heart is thumping so hard, I’m sure the whole room can feel it.
“It wasn’t, but I expected more…Where’s your drive, Miss Thorne? Your fire? Your passion?” He thumps his fist on the flimsy bench and makes the whole row of students jump from their seats. “Success in business isn’t about wishing and hoping, it’s about doing… until your fingers bleed, living and breathing every minute of every day, because if you don’t, someone else will. It’s not enough, this”--he waves my solitary sheet high for emphasis-- “is not enough. To succeed, what you have here… is not enough. So don’t waste my time, Miss Thorne, with prose that is better suited to a Liberal Arts degree.” He holds my paper and tears the sheet in two, then four, and continues until the sheet falls to the floor in a sprinkle of tiny white flakes. His dark eyes seem to hold for endless seconds, waiting for my response. Fine, I can respond.
“It’s not fiction. It’s not a wish list. It’s just a list. It’s fact, not a sob story; just the truth and the fact that you would showcase it, and in front of everyone as a flaw, well, Mr. Stone… no offense, but that kind of makes you an arsehole, and if being successful means I have to be more like you, I’m happy to remain flawed, and I am happy to fail.” I swear the entire student population took a sharp intake of breath, but Mr. Stone simply holds my gaze as if we are the only two people in the room. His jaw is tight, but he doesn’t look angry, more like he is trying to suppress his amusement. There is something else in his eyes, an intensity I can’t fathom, but it’s only a flash, and it’s gone, and briefly replaced with the most breath-taking smile I have ever seen. I think my heart stopped.
“Interesting you would choose to caveat your insult.” He places both his palms flat on the bench and leans a little closer. Not that he is anywhere near me, but the boy at the end of my row must be feeling his presence like a thundercloud in the room. “How very polite of you, Miss Thorne, but I couldn’t possibly take offense when you have revealed that you do have passion after all--tempered as it is.” The way he says the word passion, feels weighted and indulgent, and it makes the hairs on my neck tingle. I hope I won’t have to speak again, because I am struggling to swallow the lump in my throat. He pushes back and stands to his full height. He breaks his gaze with an abrupt turn and begins to walk back to the stage. “Besides, I’ve been called worse.” His smile is gone, but the whole exchange leaves me stunned and speechless. I let out a deep breath and glancing around, I wasn’t the only one. He returns to the stage and picks up his notes continuing with his presentation as if he hadn’t just bulldozed through my quiet little world. Mike leans in and whispers something about not envying me and wondering what his problem is. I give a tight smile, because I think that would be me. I appear to be his problem.
Thankfully, the remainder of the presentation proceeds without my unwelcome input, but equally there is no other interaction from Mr. Stone with any other student. I find myself filling my notebook with some very useful information. I have some business ideas of my own, safety products for ‘off the beaten path’ cyclists and runners, which could have multiple uses in healthcare, too, but have no idea what to do with them. So information on seed funding, grant applications, patents, access to research, access to markets, even exit strategy preparation are hugely helpful. I hardly have time for a single doodle in the entire hour. Despite this encouraging recovery from a disastrous start to the lecture, I don’t think it’s enough, especially if I have a target stamped to my forehead like I obviously have today. I’m starting to think that I won’t bother coming to the other lectures. I can always pick up the handouts later, and there is no sign-in sheet as such, so no one will know.
Mr. Stone addresses the room once more. “I feel it is important to remind you that for some of you these lectures are not optional. I never miss a lecture and I demand the same courtesy. I very much look forward to the next time.” At this closing statement, there is an enthusiastic round of applause as he turns his winning smile to the appreciative audience. It is my turn to scowl.
“Great, freaking great, he’s a mind reader too!” I am grumbling to myself. There is a general scramble to leave en masse. I am trapped high in a row of students, who are moving at a glacial pace. Below me there is a huge rush of people trying to vie for the attention of the “wonderful” Mr. Stone, and the gathering of bodies is large enough to block the exit. The crowd around Mr. Stone is easily ten people deep, and as I try to push my way past, I can hear the sycophantic adoration. The saccharin praises alone, I swear, cause a little bit of vomit to make a surprise appearance in my mouth. However sore I am from his attention earlier, I can’t deny he is still the hottest man I have ever seen up close, and now is the perfect opportunity to get my sneaky picture. I reach into my bag, grab my phones, and quickly determine which one I need. Not a difficult task, as my one is ancient, barely has the ability to make calls and is the size of a brick, and the one Mags gave me, which is sexy, sleek, and can do everything but make a cup of tea.
I select the camera bit and press myself into the crowd. I manage to slink my arm into a gap and fire off a few rapid snaps, hoping that I have captured something which does the subject justice. Dropping the phone into my bag, I turn after just hearing a particularly vomit-inducing summation of why Mr. Stone is the most amazing person ever to grace this theatre. The level of brown nosing is quite exceptional. “Urggg.” I grunt as I continue to shoulder my way to the exit. Mission accomplished, as I reach for the door.
“Miss Thorne.” The voice is familiar, but the volume of the boom is not, and I freeze, as do the remainder of the occupants in the room. I slowly turn with a slight smile and fake confidence.
“Mr. Stone.” To my surprise, I manage to sound normal, because in my head I am definitely screaming, ‘What the Fuck?’
“Any other issues or questions I will address next time…that will be all.” He informs those waiting in a tone that brooks no discussion. The room quickly empties, and I’m left standing by the door like a naughty schoolgirl. As the last person is about to leave, Mr. Wilson enters, almost flattening me to the wall, and hurries over to Mr. Stone.
“Mr. Stone, thank you so much. As always, a great inspiration and treat for the students.” Not sure I’m feeling the treat bit at the moment. I sigh, but really quietly, still Mr. Wilson turns to me, smiles, and lifts his chin in a fashion to encourage my dismissal. This is tricky, he doesn’t know I have been, well, I’m not sure what I’ve been …yet, but my hesitation results in a click from his tongue and a deep frown. I start to step back, slowly, toe to heel, my heart is racing, and I’m holding my breath.
“I have asked Miss Thorne to remain. Is there something you need, Jack?” His tone is rude and dismissive.
“Um, well, no. But I thought you would need to get away. I mean, if there is a problem, do you need me to-” Mr. Wilson stutters and looks with confusion between Mr. Stone and me. I share his confusion.
“No,” interrupts Mr. Stone, and I look over to see his heated eyes on me. “I need just a moment of Miss Thorne’s time. I am quite capable of securing the room before I leave, so if you wouldn’t mind?” As far as Daniel Stone is concerned, this conversation is finished. He certainly hasn’t taken his eyes from mine, not even for a moment to acknowledge my poor department head.
“Yes, of course. I’m in a hurry myself.” The room falls silent with the soft suction of the fire door closing at his departure.
“Your bag, Miss Thorne?” He strides toward me until I have to look up to maintain eye contact. I can feel a heat and energy that scares the shit out of me when he is this close, his strong frame, his deep voice, and, oh, God, his smell. I try unsuccessfully to step back. My feet won’t move, and I definitely need a bit of distance. I try to clear my throat.
“Excuse me?” My confusion is evident in my croaky tone.
“Unlikely.” He replies, then a little slower repeats himself. “I said, your bag, Miss Thorne.” Although I don’t feel like I understand what is happening, like on autopilot, my body responds to his command. My hand slips my bag from my shoulder and places it in his outstretched hand.
“Good girl.” My core clenches at the softness of his voice. I’m thinking how I would like to hear that tone, those words, and feel that power over me. I shiver. He is a full on attack to my senses, blocking my field of vision with his firm, fit body. Rich exotic aromas of citrus and spice invade my nose, and he is so close, my fingers ache to touch him. I am losing all my good sense. This just doesn’t happen to me; this can’t happen. I shift and squeeze my thighs together to try and gain some relief from the distracting pressure and heat that’s building. A small smile creases his lips as he notices this movement. He is doing this to me, and he knows it. I can’t think straight. He’s too damn close.
“Well, Miss Thorne, what have we here?” He sounds smug as he reaches into my bag.
“To be honest, you take your life in your own hands delving in there. You’ve been warned.” I am trying to make light of this, no need to antagonize him further.
“Warning noted, your life is in my hands.” His voice is hypnotic, but that wasn’t what I had said. He starts to pull out my phones and I feel the blood drain from my face. He holds my phone and raises a brow.
“That’s my brick.” I smile. Silence ensues, so I add, “It’s my phone, you know, in case of emergency I can call someone, or in case I’m attacked, I can throw it at them. Its heavy. Heavy is good, right?” Trying for light humour I get nothing, maybe a little tumbleweed rolling down the aisles, but not a peep from Mr. Stone. In fact his jaw clenched momentarily at the mention of being attacked, but just as quickly released.
“So then, this one,” he says holding my sleek new phone. “Is the one you chose to steal my soul?” Is he serious? I made that mistake once already, so I’m going to assume yes. He begins to flick at the screen.
“What luck, Miss Thorne, no security, but then, how hard would it be to guess your PIN?” He muses but he is smiling now, and he quickly accesses the camera function and gallery. He casually holds up my phone to show me the perfect close-up of the quite stunning Mr. Stone. However I explain this, it is going to look bad. Two scenarios come to mind: I am a pathetic groupie, or worse, I’m a crazy stalker. Surprisingly, that is not the question he asks. “Why do you have two phones, Miss Thorne?”
“Well,” I smile too sweetly. “I am pretty sure that is none of your business.” So much for contrite. It appears I still have some residual anger, and it looks like I’m going for full on confrontation after all. I hold his gaze, willing my body not to tremble. His eyes narrow, and they definitely look more black than blue now.
“All right, why have you taken my picture?” My face flushes seven kinds of red, and I can see him holding back a smile. I am so glad my mortification is amusing him. He is having an unwelcome and uncontrollable effect on my body, and now he is playing games with me. I no longer care if I was rude. I am angry and need to get out of there. I return his narrow gaze. The door opens, and Mr. Stone scowls at Mr. Wilson. I really feel for the poor man. “Jack, I thought I made myself clear?” His voice is cold and stern.
“Quite, you did, Daniel, but I really need to speak to Miss Thorne, urgently.” He looks really embarrassed, and I am confused why I’m causing such a problem. I would settle for the ground swallowing me in favour of my earlier under the radar request. I look toward Mr. Stone and smile tightly as I back away, but I stop and hold out my hand out for my phones and bag.
“You won’t be a moment I’m sure, I’ll just hold these until you return.” I hesitate and he grins. “What do you think I’m going to do, Miss Thorne?” His grin transforms into a wide stunning smile, which I find myself returning.
“Nothing, I’m sorry.” I don’t know how I have gone from anger to contrition so quickly, but I continue to smile as I leave Mr. Stone with my worldly possessions and meet Mr. Wilson in the corridor.
“Mr. Wilson, have I done something wrong?” I ask tentatively.
“Not at all, Bethany. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Daniel can be a bit overwhelming, and I wanted to make sure you were all right?” His smile is comforting.
“Oh, wow. That is so kind, and, yes, he can be a bit intense, but I think we just got off on the wrong foot. Maybe a little misunderstanding we are just sorting out. Nothing to worry about. It’s not like he is my actual tutor or anything.” I laugh lightly.
“No, I know, my dear, but he is heavily involved with this program, so you will probably come across him again outside of this lecture series. So it is best if you can iron out any crinkles now.” He laughs this time and I smile kindly in return, but it feels strange on my face as I begin to process what he has just told me.
“Yes, of course. I don’t want to cause any trouble. Speaking of which, I probably shouldn’t keep him waiting.” I nod toward the theatre door.
“No absolutely, in you go, I will see you around, Bethany.” He cheerfully remarks as he heads up the stairs.
I walk back into the room, but my attempt to keep some personal distance either goes unnoticed, or is more likely just ignored, as Mr. Stone strides toward me again, closing the gap to a very personal distance.
His lips curl in a knowing smile. “Now where were we? Ah, yes, why have you taken my picture?”
I pause a moment as my mind races, but I decide on a mix of honesty and mind your own business. “Well, now, that may in fact be your business, but since I am not going to tell you, and I have no intention of attending the other lectures, we will just have to add this to the list of life’s little mysteries.” I go to retrieve my phone, and I think my answer has taken him by surprise as he lets me take them from his hand. Our hands touch briefly, and I actually make a physical jump at the intensity of feeling from this simple contact. Sudden. Shocking. I hesitate, then quickly turn and go to pull the door handle. In an instant the door is slammed shut with the weight of two large palms on either side of my head. His hard body presses into my back, holding me in place. He slowly sweeps his knuckles down the side of my cheek and slides his hand under my hair, taking it away from my neck. The cool air created only intensifies the heat that is raging through my body. My breath is rapid shallow gasps, and I drop my head to the side to give him better access. I feel wanton. His fingers gently trace the curve of my neck around to my collarbone. I bite my dry lips to suppress a moan that’s desperate to escape. He pushes against me, his lips lightly brush just below my ear, and I think I can feel his erection brush against my arse through the thin material of his suit. I have never had such a blatant sexual encounter, and I guess I should feel shocked, but I’m trembling. My head is swimming and thick with too much rushing blood; it could be fear, but it feels a lot like white hot desire. I barely hear him whisper.
“You are right. It is my business, and unless I’m very much mistaken, your attendance is mandatory, and that, Miss Thorne, makes you my business. ” He grips my hips as I make to move out of his hold, grinding gently. I find myself inexplicably pushing back against him, welcoming this slow erotic dance. I’m lost, my head drops to the door with a crack, and the shock of pain breaks through this thick fuzz.
“May I go now?” I can barely breathe.
“May I go what?” He still has his lips pressed to my ear, his breath is warm and my body responds with an involuntary wave of prickles to my skin.
“May I go… Sir?” I release the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. He stands to move away, and I sag slightly at this loss of connection.
“Good girl.…. Yes, you may leave.” His voice is low and commanding. “Oh, and Miss Thorne”--I turn to see the heat and desire in his eyes--“I take my business very seriously. Until next time.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
“Yes, Sir.” I pull on the door so hard, I nearly knock myself out in my rush to leave the room, the space, that man. The stale air in the corridor is stifling, and I run to the main doors and burst out into the Quad, gulping for fresh air before I faint. I have no idea what just happened in there, but I do know I can’t let it happen again, and next time I’ll tell him as much. I’ll just keep my distance when I do.