The alarm screamed at six. I killed it, rolled onto my back, and stared at the ceiling. Thirty-three today. Single. Sexually starved. Living in a city of nine million people and somehow completely alone.
I never wanted this life. My parents wanted a lawyer in the family, and I was the obedient daughter who delivered. Four years of law school, six years of corporate drudgery, and here I was — a woman who dreamed of studying anthropology, now buried in contracts and NDAs at a Canary Wharf firm. The pay was obscene. The emptiness was worse.
Martini — my pug, not a drink — climbed onto the bed and pressed his warm body against my leg. I scratched behind his ears and made a decision.
“Today is going to be different,” I told him. “I am going to do three things. Something special. Something crazy. And something sexy.”
He tilted his head like he understood. He probably just wanted breakfast. But talking to my dog was the closest thing I had to a relationship, so I kept going.
“Don’t judge me, Martini. A girl has needs.”
I closed my eyes, let my hand drift under the sheets, and thought about the one person I always thought about. My boss. Mrs. Diane Johnson. Married, powerful, and so breathtakingly beautiful that it hurt to sit across from her in meetings. This was the highlight of my mornings — sad, maybe, but devastatingly effective.
Something Special
I walked into the office forty minutes late, which was practically early by my standards. Nobody ever said anything. Maybe because I was genuinely good at my job. Maybe because my skirt fit the way it did. I chose not to examine it too closely.
The Johnsons were waiting in the glass-walled conference room. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson — or as I privately called them, the couple that made everyone else in London look ordinary. He was sharp-jawed and silver-templed. She was something else entirely. Dark eyes, full mouth, the kind of confidence that filled a room before she even spoke.
“Good morning, darling.” Her voice wrapped around me like warm silk.
“Morning,” I said, keeping my composure. I sat down, crossed my legs, and pretended my pulse was normal.
“Tara, it’s your birthday. Why are you here? Take the day off. Go see your friends, your family.”
Friends? I had one. Family? Seven thousand kilometres away in Milan. But I smiled like someone whose life was full of both.
“I appreciate that, but—”
“No buts.” She slid a small red box across the table. “And this is for you.”
Then she stood, walked around the table, and hugged me. It was brief — three seconds at most — but her perfume hit me like a drug. Warm amber, sandalwood, something faintly spiced. I inhaled without thinking, my lips dangerously close to the curve of her neck. Every nerve ending in my body fired at once.
Pull away, Tara. Now. Before you do something career-ending.
I grabbed my things and left the building in a daze. In the car, I swapped my heels for trainers, opened the red box, and found a delicate gold necklace inside. The only birthday gift I would receive today. I put it on immediately.
I called Hannah — my one friend, a freelance photographer who somehow managed to have a career, a partner, a child, and a social life.
“The Johnsons gave me a necklace. And a day off. I don’t know what to do with either.”
“Charing Cross. Thirty minutes. We’re being tourists today.”
Something Crazy
We spent the afternoon wandering through the National Gallery, drinking Prosecco at a wine bar in Covent Garden, and pretending we were two women without responsibilities. It was the most alive I had felt in months.
“I have lived in this city for eight years,” Hannah said, “and that was my first time at the National Gallery.”
“That is embarrassing.”
“I have a toddler, Tara. I am lucky if I see the inside of a supermarket.” She paused. “Speaking of things you have been avoiding — when are you going to tell your mother?”
There it was. The question I had been dodging for years. My mother, who believed my career was my calling. My mother, who had no idea her daughter spent every morning fantasising about a woman. Who still set me up on dates with the sons of her friends whenever I visited home.
“Now,” I said. I pulled out my phone before I could talk myself out of it.
Hannah’s eyes went wide. “Tara, you are three glasses deep—”
“Ciao, Mamma. I need to tell you something.” Deep breath. “I am gay.”
Silence. The kind that stretches across continents. Then my work phone buzzed — an incoming call from the office. Six o’clock on a Friday. It had to be an emergency. I hung up on my mother mid-silence and immediately hated myself for it.
“Did you just—” Hannah started.
“I have to go. Work.” I grabbed my bag, kissed her on the cheek, and ran for the Tube.
Something Sexy
The office was dark when I arrived. Empty desks, blank monitors, the faint hum of after-hours silence. The only light came from behind Diane’s office door — a warm, amber glow that spilled across the hallway floor.
I pushed the door open. A bottle of champagne sat on her desk, already open. Music played from a small speaker — something French, something slow. Two glasses. No files. No emergency.
“Happy birthday, Tara.”
Her voice came from behind me. Before I could turn, I felt fingers brush through my hair, then the soft press of lips against the back of my neck. My breath caught. My entire body went still.
“Mrs. Johnson—”
“Diane. Tonight, it is just Diane.”
She stepped around me, took my hand, and led me to the desk. She poured the champagne and handed me a glass, her eyes never leaving mine.
“I have noticed the way you look at me,” she said softly. “This morning, when I hugged you — I felt your breath on my neck. The way you lingered.” She set her glass down. “I have wanted to do this for a long time. So tonight, consider this your real birthday present.”
My mind went blank. Every fantasy, every stolen glance, every morning with my hand between my legs thinking of this exact woman — it was all collapsing into reality.
She moved closer. Her hand found my thigh, fingers tracing upward with agonising slowness. She parted my legs gently and stepped between them, her body pressing against mine until I could feel the warmth of her breasts through the thin fabric of her blouse. The heat was unbearable.
She kissed me. Not gently — deeply, with intent, with hunger. I melted into it, every ounce of restraint dissolving. I kissed her back like I had been waiting years. Because I had.
She lifted me onto the desk, spread my legs, and kissed a slow trail down my neck, my collarbone, my stomach. Her fingers hooked into my underwear and pulled them down. I was already soaked.
When her mouth found me, I stopped breathing. The world reduced to the warmth of her tongue, the grip of her hands on my thighs, the obscene sound of my own voice filling the empty office. I could not think. I could only feel.
She told me to call her Diane, but the only thought in my head was: my boss is on her knees, and she is making me fall apart.
The orgasm hit like a wave breaking — sudden, deep, total. I arched off the desk and gripped the edge until my knuckles went white. For a moment, I forgot my own name.
When I came back to myself, I knew exactly what I wanted to do next.
I finished my champagne in one swallow, took her by the waist, and turned her around. I pressed her against the desk, facing the floor-to-ceiling window — the Canary Wharf skyline glittering below like a private audience.
“Your turn,” I whispered against her ear.
I kissed the back of her neck, her shoulders, the curve of her spine. My hand slid under her skirt, found her wet and waiting, and began to move. She moaned — low, breathless, real. I could see her reflection in the glass, her lips parted, her eyes half-closed, and it drove me to go harder.
I slid her underwear down and guided her onto the desk. She climbed up without a word — trusting, willing, exposed. I knelt behind her and replaced my fingers with my mouth.
It took five minutes. She came with a shudder that ran through her entire body, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk, her voice cracking on my name.
“That was…” She turned to face me, still trembling. “God, Tara. That was incredible.”
Birthday Sex
I walked through my front door at half past nine, singing under my breath. Martini greeted me with his usual look of profound judgement — the one that said: ice cream, documentary, sad solo session?
“Not tonight, my love.” I scooped him up and kissed his wrinkled face. “Tonight, everything changes.”
I set him down, opened my laptop, and searched for anthropology programmes. It was not too late. It was never too late. All I needed was one extraordinary day to remember who I actually was — and one extraordinary woman to remind me what I had been missing.
I texted my mother: I meant what I said. I love you. Call me when you are ready.
Then I poured myself a glass of wine, put Martini on my lap, and smiled. For the first time in years, I felt like myself.
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