Stairs. I am going to make more of an effort to take the stairs this year. An easy change in my daily habits, and small changes in my day will develop long term benefits. “Which is great”, I mutter to myself, “when you’re not in 5-inch heels and headed up to a client’s fourth-floor office.” But I persevere, one hand on the handrail, the other clutching my portfolio. After all, it’s only ten short flights, sufficient to build the perfect burn in my calves without having me break out into a sweat or arrive looking flustered.
So I take the stairs.
I am on the third floor when the entry door shudders open, disgorging an obscenely handsome male-god in a dark blue shirt. I stop hard to avoid a collision, my lips parted, to find myself staring straight into his delightfully dark eyes. The stubble surrounding his full lips shifts comfortably, revealing a dazzlingly white smile, and he slowly moves to let me pass, making no attempt to hide his purposeful gaze working its way from my heels to my mouth.
“I’m Rick”, he says, and extends a surprisingly rough hand. What does he do in his spare time?
“Mille” I breath, and reach out. He grasps my hand in his and pulls me close. His thigh touches mine, and my senses are suddenly full of his masculinity. His ambrosial scent, the shirt sleeves rolled up his muscular forearms, the strength of his grip, the way his hair falls across his forehead as he dips his head to whisper into my ear. “Mille, I want you”.
My breath quickens as I feel my panties grow moist. I step back but he doesn’t let go of my hand.
This is not my average stairwell encounter. I have experienced mild flirtations whilst traversing one floor to the next before but never anything so immediately oozing with heated desire. He is all leather and berries, and I can tell from the throbbing in my clit that any encounter is going to be fucking hot.
However, I am keenly aware that I can’t keep a favoured client waiting; I reach into my purse and pass him a business card. “Call me after 4”.
He accepts it with a nod, and lets me pass. I can feel his eyes placed firmly on my ass as I continue up the stairs, and grant him one glance behind. Just in case. I needn’t have bothered because this is clearly a man who knows what he wants.
He is leaning casually against the balustrade, arms folded, enjoying the view up my wide flowing skirt. A wink, and I lose sight of him.
Inhaling deeply, I shake myself a little to regain my pre-appointment composure. Tonight. Leave all thoughts of him until after work, Mille. You know you’re good at that, and you know you’ll not be waiting many minutes past 4.
My lips curve into a smile. See, stairs are good for you.
Soul Journal 
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