Cameron Ntenga - 31, black divorcee

Brooke spent the next hour in a daze. Time moved through treacle as she twirled the events in Cameron's office around in her mind. The feeling of his body underneath her, his cock inside her, his hands on her skin, were all burnt into her brain. She felt like she was breathing in an oven.

Thank you, Brooke, that will be all. A nagging feeling at the back of her skull. That will be all. Was that it? One and done, wham, bam, thank you ma'am? Had she just made a huge mistake? She had just had sex with her boss. Wasn't that the definition of what not to do?

But the way he had looked at her. With longing, with pure desire. Surely it wasn't just for the triumph of conquering his secretary. Surely he wanted more. God knows she did. She needed more.

The meeting ended, and the gentleman left, escorted out by Cameron, who avoided catching her eye despite her best efforts. Once he was in the lift, however, Cameron finally turned to her with an unreadable expression. Brooke looked at him warily.

"Is there ... any chance I made you pregnant?" he asked.

Brooke shook her head. "I'm on the pill."

Cameron sighed with relief as he polished his glasses, a grateful smile on his face. Then he looked at her, dark eyes glittering. "I knew hiring you was dangerous," he said.

Blushing, she smiled coyly. "I knew working for you was dangerous. Sir," she added, with as much raw sexuality as she could muster.

He held her gaze for an eternity, and Brooke could practically hear him suppressing his lust. "When's my next meeting?" he asked.

"Five minutes," Brooke said without even having to look at her computer.

Chuckling in exasperation, Cameron shook his head and paced in front of her desk. Then he looked at her with an almost nervous expression. "Do you want to get dinner with me tonight?"

Something short-circuited in her brain. So many times, she had imagined fucking him, in the office, in her bed, in some shady back-alley, with him in control, with her in control ... and it had never even crossed her mind that he would ask her out.

"Or we can just keep it professional," he added after an awkward pause. "Pretend I didn't ask -"

"No," Brooke said quickly. "No, of course I do." She smiled.

A joyful grin split his face. "Great. Great, it's a ... uh ... it's a date."

Adjusting her bra strap, Brooke looked at herself in the mirror. She had already decided on her underwear - the only set of lingerie she owned, a classic-style black set complete with stockings, garter belt, and lace panties - but she had yet to pick out a dress. Her frizzy hair had been partially tamed into a ponytail, revealing tasteful studs in her earlobes. A delicate silver necklace nestled between her breasts.

All in all, she didn't think she looked too bad. The lingerie highlighted what curves she had, and her makeup - which she had spent at least half an hour on - gave her paleness an alluring, delicate beauty, rather than the usual air of slight sickliness.

But what was she actually going to wear? After ages of agonizing, she had narrowed it down to a choice of three. The safest option was a tasteful, if chaste, flowing lilac dress with a skirt that just reached past her knees. A more adventurous option was a sleek cream dress that hugged her curves, with spaghetti straps and a miniskirt that extended just past the top of her stockings.

And then there was the third option. Stark white and flowing, it was by far the most expensive dress she owned. And the most revealing - with a plunging neckline that almost reached her belly-button and a slit that would expose almost all of her left leg, she would no doubt have to forgo the lingerie to have the full effect.

Tasteful, adventurous, or showstopper? Tasteful, adventurous, or showstopper? Brooke felt like tearing her hair out.