Audacity (Seraph)

What do you get when you cross a group of thirsty Seraphim with a platinum Amex?

A very large cocktail bill.

At least that’s the way it’s looking.

It’s my turn to fund the Seraph drinks this evening. As the latest of this highest order of angels to start a new job, I’m putting my generous sign-on bonus to good use behind the bar of the new and sinfully decadent Bar Noir at the Montague Hotel in Knightsbridge.

‘When the Clase Azul is flowing on someone else’s dime, the Seraphim flock,’ I observe. ‘It’s busier than the gates of heaven tonight.’

In reality, I couldn’t give a shit about the bar tab. It’s Friday night, and I’m with some of my favourite women in the world. My friend Sophia has even flown in from Monaco for the occasion. She calls our monthly drinks essential self-care.

‘St Peter must be lonely tonight,’ she muses. ‘I wonder if he ever resorts to his own hand.’

I shake my head. ‘You’re dreadful. How did you get out of work early, anyway?’

‘Thad fucked me over lunch for good measure and then helicoptered me to Nice so I could catch his PJ over. You know me, I’m all about efficiency. Yamas.’

‘Yamas,’ I say, holding up my shot of Clase Azul in response. We clink carefully and then down our drinks. Tequila this excellent requires no accoutrements.

Soph is Greek-born but was educated primarily in the UK and US. The daughter of a prominent shipping family, she works for another Greek shipping magnate, Thaddeus Karavitis, and spends most of her time with him between Athens, Montenegro and Monaco. Karavitis may be in his early sixties, but he’s arguably the kinkiest bastard of any Seraph client. God knows, he works Soph hard, and God knows, she bloody loves it. He may have a wife and four kids, but she’s more like a paid mistress than an EA, from what I can tell.

The lifestyle seems to suit her. She’s a lush beauty, all huge black doe eyes and pouty lips and incredible tits.

‘Nice.’ I tell her. I lean in and sniff her neck. ‘You still reek of sex, you dirty bitch.’

She throws her head back and cackles delightedly, earning amused glances from the rest of our little group. They all know what she’s like.

‘You know it. I just had time to spritz some perfume on before I got on the chopper. He’s fucking insatiable. That man pops little blue pills like they’re Skittles.’

‘I bet he can’t keep his hands off you. And you’re indecently tanned for January,’ I say, looking her over. She could never in a million years be accused of looking slutty, but her wardrobe is definitely more flamboyant than mine. It makes sense, given her jet setting lifestyle, that she’s less about demure Max Mara and more about the fun brands: Dolce. Cavalli. Versace.

‘Thad and I went sailing in the BVIs for a week after Christmas,’ she confesses. ‘I was topless or nude on the yacht most of the time. He likes me tanned.’

‘I bet he does,’ I murmur, giving her exposed décolletage a once-over. Her golden tits are nestled like puppies into the low V of her gorgeous red silk dress. I’m not really into women, but Soph and I have fooled around once. During my brief stint with Anton Wolff, Karavitis invited him onto his yacht when it was moored in Montenegro. Let’s just say the two tycoons put their heads together and decided upon watching me and her get each other off with vibrators before they got in on the action.

I can confirm that Karavitis is an excellent poster boy for Viagra.

I can also confirm that Sophia’s puppies feel as fantastic as they look.

In theology, Seraphim are the order of angels closest to God’s throne. The name Seraph, therefore, is fitting in more ways than one. Not only do our combinations of fierce intellects and ethereal polish merit it, but our positions afford us that same proximity to myriad seats of power across Europe and the US.

Icarus showed us that those who fly too high can get burnt, so Soph’s definition of these meet-ups as essential self-care is on point. Fuck knows, it can be intimidating, exhausting, managing these titans of industry, these entitled men-children who aren’t used to being told no and who expect it all.

Our NDAs purposely extend to individuals outside the Seraph organisation only. Camille structured them so that we could share details of our work within the group on a confidential basis. Our positions in our respective firms are necessarily isolated and overly focused on one person. The Seraph sisterhood provides a safe place, a support network, a sense of belonging. There’s no rivalry, only camaraderie.

In a society that would shame us for our career choices while bleeding out with envy at our bank balances, we have this group of likeminded women to cheerlead and commiserate, to share seduction hacks and horror stories alike. No one fluffs each other up like Seraphim. We even have an online chat devoted solely to swapping tips for our investment portfolios, because the Seraphim are raking it in.

When we’re all sitting in a black and gold alcove with a shot glass and champagne flute apiece and a bottle of Clase Azul sitting pretty in the middle of our table, Camille raises her flute with her trademark poise.

‘To the Seraphim: may you rise ever higher… and take our clients with you to heaven.’

‘To the Seraphim,’ we all chorus, flutes held aloft.

‘To the angels who guard the gates of power,’ Sophia offers.

‘To celestial bodies and earthly pleasures,’ I counter, and she snorts.

‘To vertical integration and horizontal negotiations,’ quips our friend Bree, a gorgeous Black woman with a Stanford MBA and a body that’s frankly ridiculous.

The rest of us laugh, and Camille’s mouth twists in amusement. ‘To burning bright and keeping secrets.’

‘Amen to that,’ I say firmly, and Bree’s head whips around. She doesn’t miss a trick.

‘Oh look! The hot priest has converted her already! That’s so sweet. Christianity is a good look on you, honey. Do you guys pray together, too?’

I roll my eyes to conceal the fact that a memory is searing itself onto my brain.

Gabe’s clothed body wrapped around my naked one, pumping me from behind as he recited The Book of Psalms in a way that was conflicted and filthy all at once.

‘I only know one way to pray,’ I retort, ‘and it always ends in a celestial moment. For everyone involved.’

‘But it’s going well?’ Camille asks, her face serious now. ‘I have to say, of all the guys who walk through our doors, he seemed like one of the most thoroughly decent.’

The girls are watching me like hawks. I need to be careful here.

‘It’s going really well,’ I tell Camille briskly. ‘He’s a lovely guy, like you say, and the company is fascinating. There’s so much to sink my teeth into.’

‘I bet there is, you horny little slut,’ Soph mutters beside me, and I turn and glare at her.

‘I meant overhauling their charitable efforts and building a proper foundation, airhead.’

‘I’m looking him up,’ Maya, another Seraph, declares, bending her head over her phone. ‘What’s his name again?’

‘Gabriel Sullivan,’ Camille supplies unhelpfully. She shoots me another of her enigmatic smiles. ‘He really is very attractive. And you know he came in and asked for Athena specifically.’

‘What can I say?’ I pretend to admire my glossy maroon nails. ‘My reputation precedes me.’

‘Well, if he wanted to be well and truly corrupted, he went for the right Seraph,’ Maya muses, then sits up straight. ‘Holy shit! He’s fucking gorgeous!’

She turns the phone around, and fuck. It’s that photo of Gabe in his dog collar—the one I found so arresting during my initial Google search. The one where he’s ramrod straight and unsmiling and bathed in rainbow light diffused through his stain-glassed windows. Glancing at it now, having fucked him several times, knowing how hooded those astonishing eyes go right before he comes, knowing the sounds of disbelief and awe he makes when he first pushes inside me each time… it’s a whole other level of affecting.

‘Jesus fuck,’ Sophia says, peering in for a better look. ‘You jammy bitch.’

‘Please tell me he dresses up as a priest for you,’ another Seraph, Claudia, pleads. ‘For the sake of women everywhere.’

I manage a laugh. ‘No—I haven’t—he hasn’t dressed up. It’s still a big deal for him, I think—he’s still very much in transition to being a lay person.’

‘Hiring yourself a Seraph would be an effective way to speed up that transition, I should think,’ Claudia says.

‘You need to get your kink on and explore the priest thing,’ my friend Talia pipes up. ‘Claudia’s right. Think of the stuff you could do! Oh my God, it could be so hot.’

‘I don’t want to offend him,’ I protest, ignoring the fact that I profaned his sacred little prayer room without a second thought—and he let me. I’m aiming to convey discretion. I feel odd discussing my working relationship with Gabe here, with these shrewd, exacting women, and I’m not sure why. I never had any problem regaling them with outrageous tales about Anton or moaning about how boring Steve was. I tell myself it’s because Gabe is new to this world of… sin, essentially. He’s a good man undergoing some serious shifts in his lifestyle.

He’s not fair game.

Not like the others.

Bree cocks her head and surveys me, her expression shifting from amusement to concern.

‘Any other recent fucks you want to fill us in on?’ she asks with a gentleness I don’t like. The vast majority of us are in non-exclusive contracts with our bosses, which means they, and we, are free to screw around as long as we use protection and get tested fortnightly. We can even have boyfriends, if we like. I definitely enjoyed the benefits of no-strings-attached sex when I was working for Steve Goodall, but it hasn’t even crossed my mind since I’ve started with Gabe.

‘No,’ I say weakly. ‘He keeps me… busy.’

He keeps me so awash with orgasms that I have no need to go looking for D.

It was the same with Anton, I remind myself. When you’re in a sexually gratifying dynamic with your boss, there’s no need to go looking elsewhere.

I’m aware of the girls exchanging some concerned glances.

‘It’s okay if this one’s different, honey,’ Bree says now. ‘You know that, right?’

‘It’s—he’s not!’ I splutter. ‘I’ve only been there a few weeks, okay? The first few weeks are always intense.’ There’s intense, and then there’s the memory of Gabe looking up at me as he ate me, claiming his “prize” after our successful meeting about the foundation, but nobody here needs to know that.

She pats my knee. ‘Of course they are. You do you, okay? Now, let me tell you about my most recent trip to La Perla with Robert. They closed the place down and smuggled us in the back.’

Bree works for a very senior Member of Parliament, a man who holds the nation’s fate in his hands and has such a penchant for dressing his beautiful EA in expensive lingerie that they go to underwear stores at least once a week. Or so it seems, anyway. As she talks, I allow myself to relax, grateful for the elegant way she’s steered the conversation away from Gabe.

I may be enjoying my time with him a little too much, but I’m barely capable of admitting that to myself. There’s absolutely no way the topic of me and him is open for discussion among this group of badass women whose brains, looks and ambition have them unabashedly, systematically, sleeping their way to the top.

The hilarious banter continues, interrupted only when a group of what look like crypto bros at the bar send a server over with a bottle of Dom Perignon, complete with sparklers, to our table. They’ve been leering all night from a safe distance. There’s much cheering from them when the cork is popped, and a couple of decorous nods of acknowledgement from us, but not much more.

We don’t want to encourage them, after all.

One, we’re here strictly for girl time.

And two, they could never afford us.