When only Flowers will hit the Spot

After my amazing first night with Cleo, we breakfasted in our room and seemed to have slipped comfortably into that feeling that we’d been together for much longer…

Annoyingly, my phone started ringing at 0730, a client in Birmingham was having a crisis, even ahead of a scheduled meeting for lunchtime, could I go sooner.

Not too much drama, as Cleo had an audition at 11 and needed to go home to Shoreditch to change.

Over French toast and strong coffee we giggled and I got that warm rush of being with someone you quite like, with whom you’ve just had the luck to have great sex.

Unfortunately, within an hour I was in a First Class compartment speeding towards the UK’s very dull second city (second city? – bollocks, should be Manchester!).

I called a very nice lady at Jane Packer in Sloane Street, with whom I have built up an understanding since my sugar career began and with a brief text to give her Cleo’s address, a very large bunch of flowers were duly dispatched.

I settled into my seat as the train progressed towards Birmingham, only to be disturbed by a text from Cleo,

“So pleased you are my Daddy xxx”

Indeed I was and it felt great.


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