Not My Type - Sex Stories

Not My Type

... me. I tried not to show it, but she sensed my hesitation and continued.

“I saw you checking it out when I walked in. Everyone does. I know it's fire.”

Fire wasn't wrong. Black leggings. Willowy curves. Enough said.

Clearing my throat, I clarified, “I meant why should I hire you instead of the next person out there?” I indicated the cheap panelled door that was made, like most things in the company, by the lowest bidder.

“Because,” she leaned forward, her low cut T-shirt gaping slightly while I kept my gaze professional. Mostly. “The person out there won't be as good. And nobody else has my arse.”

I stared at her. “Quite,” and scribbled downconfident. Backed up a bit and added the prefix:over-.

She lifted her chin to peek. Took a moment, presumably because reading upside down wasn't her forte. Or reading, full stop. She pointed at the page. “You forgotfine arse.”

“If I write that, I might get fired.”

Leaning back in her chair so the front two legs lifted off the floor a fraction, she stretched her chest until her sternum clicked. Even though there wasn't much to her upper half, her tits strained the fabric and I caught the outline of a nipple ring. “No wonder people are so miserable at work.”

“Are they?”

“Yeah. Totes.”

“Here, or in general?”

“In general. At other jobs.”

“My team aren’t miserable.”

“If you say so.”

“I'm not miserable.”

She tipped her head coquettishly and studied me. “But you're not happy.”

“I am.”

“Happy ...

... people smile. You married?”

I held up my left hand. “That's what the ring says. By the way, I'm supposed to be the one interviewing you.”

“So I'm not meant to ask questions?”

I paused. “Of course you can, but usually at the end—”

“Why not now?”

“—and they're normally work-related.”

She eyed me, a flash of mischief sparking. “Shouldn't I get to know my boss before I accept the job? You might be a knobhead.”

Couldn't argue she had a point. “Fine. Do you have anyrelevant questions?”

That impish grin resurfaced. “What's the dress code?”

“Nothing that could easily get caught on machinery or shelving. Besides that, anything goes. We're not customer-facing back here.”

Zoë smoothed the top against her hourglass. “So this is fine?”

“Yes.”

“I know leggings work for you. What about skirts?”

“Yes. Short and tight.” I back-pedalled. “That's not being sexist or anything. Long or flowing clothes can catch.”

“Got it. Underwear?”

“Not my concern.”

She fluttered natural lashes. “But if it wasyour concern?”

I exhaled. “Functional.”

“Absent?”

I took a breath. “As long as it doesn't interfere with your work.”

“Mint. So do I get the job?”

“I have other applicants to see yet.”

“But I've got a good chance?”

I had to admire her audacity. “We’ll see, Miss Metcalfe.”

As it turned out, the rest of the candidates were NEETs, students or retirees looking to top up their pension before they croaked. I hired Zoë the next day. And she was ...