Slough Sensation
"HR manager Ngozi interviews dozens of candidates weekly. When confident applicant David turns the tables and interviews her, they both discover the position they really want to fill."
"Tell me about a time you handled a difficult situation."
David smiled across the interview table. "Define difficult."
Ngozi looked up from her notes. The candidate was confident—too confident, maybe—with an ease that suggested he wasn't worried about this job at all.
"Professionally challenging," she clarified.
"Professionally." He leaned forward. "Or do you mean personally? Because you look like a woman who could be very challenging."
This was not standard interview protocol.
"Mr. Hammond, this is a professional—"
"It is. And I'm very good at what I do." He didn't look away. "But I've also been watching you for the past twenty minutes. The way you cross and uncross your legs. The way you keep touching your collar. You're not as calm as you want to appear."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm observant. It's a skill." He stood, walking around the table. "You've interviewed twelve people today. I've seen them leaving. And you're exhausted, aren't you? Tired of asking the same questions. Tired of pretending to be interested."
He was behind her now. "When was the last time someone interviewed you?"
"This is highly inappropriate."
"Do you want me to stop?"
Ngozi should have said yes. Should have called security. Instead, she felt his hands on her shoulders, rubbing the tension she'd been carrying all day.
"You're very tense," he observed. "Too many hours in this chair."
"It's my job."
"Your job is making you miserable." He leaned down, breath warm on her ear. "Let me show you something better."
She turned her chair to face him. "You're either very bold or very stupid."
"Maybe both." He smiled. "But I'm also very good at reading people. And you, Ngozi, want this as much as I do."
He kissed her before she could argue. And God help her, she kissed back.
The interview room had a lock. She used it.
"This can't happen again," she gasped as he lifted her onto the table.
"Of course not." He pushed up her skirt. "Completely unprofessional."
"Absolutely inappropriate."
"The worst HR violation."
But neither of them stopped.
He took her on the interview table, scattering her notes and pens. Her thick thighs wrapped around him as he drove into her, harder than she'd been touched in years.
"Yes—David—more—"
"Tell me what you need."
"Harder. Don't hold back."
He didn't. The table creaked dangerously, and she had to muffle her cries against his shoulder. When she came, it was with an intensity that surprised them both.
"Your turn," she demanded, and pulled him deeper until he followed.
Afterward, straightening their clothes, avoiding each other's eyes.
"I can't hire you," Ngozi said. "Obviously."
"Obviously." He handed her a scattered pen. "But I could take you to dinner. Discuss other... positions."
"This was a mistake."
"Was it?" He caught her hand. "When's the last time you felt that alive?"
She couldn't remember. And that was the problem.
"Friday. Seven o'clock. That Italian place on the high street."
"Is that an interview?"
"It's a second round." She smoothed her skirt. "Don't be late."
David didn't get the job. He got something better.
They dated for six months before moving in together. Ngozi's colleagues never knew that her relationship started over an interview table.
"How did you two meet?" people asked at the engagement party.
"I interviewed him," Ngozi said smoothly.
"He showed very strong initiative," David added.
Only they knew exactly how strong. And that the interview room—now renovated—still made them both smile whenever they walked past.
Some positions were never advertised. But they were definitely worth filling.