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least insisted on going home after sex!
    On any other day, she would've nipped out mid-morning and gone home to change. But today wasn't just any day. The big boss was in residence. The boss of all bosses, visiting his UK holdings. Jackson K. de Guile - the 'de Guile' in de Guile International and the de Guile Tower. Even now, he could be perusing her personnel file in his penthouse office - the near-mythic eyrie that sat atop the imposing structure in which Delia worked. Her own office was several dozen floors below, but she could be summoned skywards at any moment.
    'Random informal interviews of key personnel' was the word on the grapevine and Murphy's law predicted that Delia Ferraro, Divisional Administration Manager, be called in just when she was wearing yesterday's suit, no tights and some distinctly uneasy-making underwear. Taking a grateful swig of the coffee her secretary had ready for her, she dove straight for the women's rest room as soon as she arrived on her floor.
    Appraising herself in the mirror, Delia saw that all things considered, she really didn't look too bad.
    Her hair and make-up were as neat and cool-looking as this insane weather would allow. Luckily she kept a small supply of toiletries at Russell's for the rare occasions when she stayed over. With these she'd been able to paint, perfume and deodorise herself to her usual fastidious standards. She was fortunate too, in that even though her conker-coloured hair was riotously thick and wavy, she had an inborn 'knack' for taming it. She could always coax it into one or another of various sleek, 'power' hairstyles, and today's was a coil at the nape of her neck. With a slight, clever twist in the pull-back, she'd smoothed in all the wayward tendrils without the need for any lacquer or spray.
    Oh God, why was it so hot? Taking a small pressed powder compact from her bag, Delia dabbed at the faint traces of shine on her brow, her upper lip and her chin. It was a nightmare staying fresh when it was like this. She felt sleazy and used; faintly animalistic, as if the unnatural heat were putting her 'on heat' too. Was it a coincidence that her new cravings for sex were matched by the record-breaking temperatures?
    Staring at her slightly flushed face, Delia wished she could sometimes be more like Deana. Sister dear didn't bother about conventional bandbox turnout at the best of times, but when it was hot she'd just fling on some skimpy old vest-like frock, or maybe a semi-transparent skirt and camisole, then blithely sally forth with just the tiniest pair of knickers underneath. If that! And even though this just wasn't Delia's 'thing', she had to admit that her feckless, free-wheeling twin always ended up looking like a goddess. A new age nymph, as laid back and sensual as it was possible to be, and always, repeat always, ready for sex.
    Sex! Oh damn! Not that again! Delia smoothed her fingers over her navy blue linen skirt and wondered what the heatwave was doing to her hormones. Here she was, on possibly the most important business day of her life, with a pivotal interview ahead, and she was already having carnal thoughts again. Carnal in the form of a dusky mental intruder who both improved her sex-life with Russell and showed her how utterly pathetic it really was.
    And that was another thing! For a fairly sexless sort of man, Russell had surprised her with a strangely salacious birthday present: a gift she'd had to wear this morning because she had no clean underwear to put on.
    It felt very peculiar to be wearing a pair of lemon silk camiknickers beneath her tailored suit, instead of the usual M&S cottons. She was disturbingly aware of its lace-encrusted bodice delicately stimulating her nipples; and worse still, the feel of a fragile popper-fastened gusset working its way slowly but insidiously into her sexual furrow. Every movement seemed to tighten it against her inner lips and clitoris and she hardly dare imagine what state the garment might be