An Interference That I Don't Need
1134 Words
Soren, still flushed and fresh from his recent, shall we say, energetic encounter..
With a tall, slim, and blonde woman—his preferred type.
He was feeling rather pleased with himself..
The woman's high-pitched giggles, though grating after a while, had served their purpose.
He was certainly not thinking about the woman with the grey eyes, the one whose name seemed to echo through the office walls.
No, he was focused on the afterglow, the satisfying sense of conquest.
As he leisurely strolled down the hallway of his father's company, on his way to his office, a smug grin was playing on his lips.
The soft hum of the people quietly talking as he passed by created a soothing background noise.
Scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted in the air, enticing Soren to take a detour to the break room.
Suddenly, he was brought to an abrupt halt after he turned into a corner.
's**t'
A small, solid figure collided with him, sending a jolt through his frame.
Sweet smell of floral, that was easy on the nose assaulted his senses.
He looked down, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features.
"Watch where you're going," he began, his voice laced with his usual air of superiority.
Then he saw her.
Grey eyes, magnified by thick glasses, blankly staring back at him.
She stared back, as if she couldn't believe her misfortune.
Her black hair, pulled to perfection.
Doesn't that hurt? Soren commented in his mind.
It's Martha, he thought, a flicker of irritation mixing with a strange sense of… recognition?
She somehow feels familiar, but he can't come up with a logical explanation as to why, how, when?
He'd only seen her in the boardroom yesterday, when he was seated.
Do we know each other from somewhere? No, impossible.
No. I don't know her. Soren immediately trash the idea of socializing with her elsewhere.
He felt so sure. He stepped back slightly and tried to look at her overall appearance.
Wearing a long sleeves beige blouse that was buttoned up to her neck. Very prim.
And a pencil cut skirt that goes down to her knees, shaping her body.. Very proper.
And yet, his thoughts are not. He immediately caught himself and stopped his mind from thinking of something dirty.
She's wearing a comfortable pair of shoes. Yep, definitely the opposite.
Soren hadn't realized she was so… petite.
He was 6'4, and she barely reached his shoulder.
"Oh, I—" she started, her voice a soft murmur, before a flurry of papers erupted from her grasp, scattering across the floor.
"Clumsy," he muttered under his breath, though he did bend to help gather the files.
Before his fingers could even touch a single sheet, however, Martha was a whirlwind of efficiency.
She moved with surprising speed, her hands darting across the floor, gathering the papers with practiced ease.
The soft scratched of her perfectly trimmed nails on the floor are the only sound.
Even the paper that he was about to pick up has somehow vanished in the blink of an eye.
Within seconds, the scattered documents were neatly stacked in her arms.
"I've got it," she said, her voice clipped, avoiding his gaze. "Thank you."
He felt like he just saw a mirage, it left him gaping like a fish.
She stood, her small frame radiating an air of quiet competence that somehow irritated him further.
He straightened, brushing off his navy blue suit as if her presence had disrupted its pristine state.
"Right," he said, his tone dismissive. "Just try to be more careful next time."
He turned and continued down the hallway, the image of her grey eyes and the quiet professionalism of her movements lingering in his mind, a persistent, unwelcome echo.
'Tch'
"Good morning Mister Blackwell"
"Good morning sir!"
A commotion of greetings attacked him, and he cant help but to think of the quiet Martha that did not even utter a single 'goodmorning'.
But then again, it was an accident and he already snarled at her, so the acknowledgement would be moot.
Soren then settled into his plush office chair, a frown now creasing his brow.
Martha.
The name, like a persistent mosquito, buzzed around his head.
He tried to dismiss the collision as a mere awkward accident, but her grey eyes, enhanced by those ridiculous glasses, kept flashing into his mind.
Martha, the name flowed smoothly on his lips..
"Why is she so… organized?" he muttered, tapping a pen against his desk.
It was irritating.
He was used to people fumbling, needing his assistance, looking to him for guidance.
Martha, however, was a self-contained unit of expertise. It was almost… unsettling.
He tried to shake off the image of her—ordinary, to recall the woman last night.. her soft curves and breathy whispers in his sheets.
The smell of a steamy and sweaty s*x.
That was the kind of woman he preferred – uncomplicated, appreciative.
Well, its not like he is interested with dear Martha.
Nope. No way.
He closed his eyes, attempting to conjure the memory of the blonde woman's laughter, the way her hair had spilled across the pillows.
But instead of a blonde hair, he saw Martha’s black mane.
And those grey eyes, usually hidden behind thick lenses, were now clear, intense, and… strangely alluring.
He imagined her leaning in, a hint of a smile playing on her small lips.
Her figure, full and curvy, was somehow, impossibly, radiating a heat he hadn’t noticed before.
Her black hair is flowing freely like a waterfall down her chest.. and her plump breast...
"What the hell?" he muttered, snapping his eyes open.
He was losing his mind. Martha? Martha? He scoffed.
This was ridiculous. He tried to focus, to recall the blonde's giggles but all he can remember is how he wants to silence her by taping that mouth.
He tried to remember the blonde's touch, but his mind went to Martha.
Her soft chest against him, her eyes, her body, her quiet work—they all felt different, like they were trying to get his attention.
Even her soft voice was changing how he felt.
It's doing something in him!
And he doesnt like it!
"This is absurd," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair. "I need to get a grip."
He tried again, this time harder.
Soren tried to recall the blonde's smile, but Martha's face is all he could think about.
He doesnt even remember the blonde's face!
He felt a weird heat crawling up his neck
"Just… stop," he whispered to himself, feeling a strange mix of annoyance and something he couldn’t quite place.
"I am not thinking about Martha."
He knew he was lying to himself.
It feels like, she's a quiet interference in his already perfect world.
- Writer
