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enthralled. I haven’t felt this alive in months. I haven’t felt this desire to move forward––to take a risk. What has she done to me?
    Have I ever being so affected by a single female in such a sparse amount of time? No, I haven’t, so why her and why now? My heart is pounding incessantly against my chest, adrenaline, blood and testosterone surges unrelentingly through my veins. My cock gives into a deliciously, tempting twitch.
    I close my eyes and take a sharp intake of breath, contemplating the way I surreptitiously studied the arch of her instep as her sole moulded against the angle of her black skyscraper heels. The way the light bounced from the surface of the silver mirrored heel, complimenting her pale, flawless skin. My eyes slithering slowly up her lean, toned legs as I silently valued every inch.
    I have to get out of here and search for some answers––answers to why I am affected so much by her in this way. I am bewildered by the emotions that I have faced with her in my company. I have never felt this way before, well, not for a very long time anyway. Could I trust her? I groan, shaking my head. Trust; is there ever such a thing?
    The glow from my desk light disturbs my contemplation. 6.30 p.m., time to go home and have a well-deserved stiff drink. The drink isn’t going to be the only stiff thing, if you keep fantasizing about Miss Alluring-Long-Legs my subconscious mocks with wicked, glinting eyes.
    From beside my right foot underneath my desk, I collect my briefcase. Pushing my body out of the moulded leather seat, I pull open the top left draw of my desk, and recover the résumé that the agency has forwarded to me. Grazing my thumb across her name, I idly imagine that it is that striking, pink lower lip of hers which is beneath my thumbs caress.
    I sigh. Samantha Kennedy…
    Breaking free from my musing, I unhinge the gold clasps of my briefcase as it lays on the surface of the bureau and place the parchment on top of the additional documents that I possess. Hastily pulling at the cord of the desk lamp, my office is plunged into darkness. Only the light from the corridor beyond my door subtly illuminates a small quantity of the parameter of the darkened room––just enough to permit me safe passage without tripping over anything as I stroll to the exit.
    Placing my briefcase onto the spicy red leather passenger seat, I slide into the driver’s seat and sink into the plush leather of my DB9. Throwing my head against the cool headrest, I fight the draining sensation that overpowers me, both physically, and mentally. I pull the door shut and press the ignition and head for home.
    Oh, my life––this is taking forever my subconscious exclaims angered as he inspects his Rolex, then throws his arms into the air in an over exaggerated fashion.
    The drive home is torturous . Stopping at another set of traffic light, I lean forward, and push a silver button that is embedded within the tortoiseshellconsole. The radio crackles to life before some explicit rap song resumes playing. Normally, I would switch the station immediately; I’m not a fan of this rap music. Now, the raspy, consuming, seductive sounds of Jazz, Soul, and Motown on the other hand…       
    Still, for some strange reason, I’m unable to bring myself to hit that button. I listen intently to the lyrics.
    As the song draws to its close, I am soon left reeling as a deep sense of infuriation begins to simmer and ruthlessly attacks my body. Why am I findingaconnectionbetween random matters and Samantha? It is infantile.
    Hayden, you are educated in philosophy; you are perfectly aware that all of these…um, signs, if you will, are apparent because you are concentrating extensively on making the connection. My subconscious clarifies while looking over his designer square framed glasses, his legs crossed as he sits in an avocado green wingchair, filling his notepad with details of my predicament.
    Exasperated, I turn the radio off,