Looking Inside

by BETH KERY

  Trey was going to watch it all.

  The idea was unbearably exciting, and yet . . . her hand lowered to her naked thigh, her fingers trailing her juices across her skin. She lowered her head. The intimacy of the moment suddenly overwhelmed her.

  Open your eyes, stupid. See what he’s doing. Meet his stare and do this thing with eyes wide open.

  Instead, she found herself strutting back to the bed, her flash of self-consciousness not entirely erasing her sexual boldness. She did her favorite sinuous move, going belly down on the mattress. Her skirt had been jacked up higher this time. The bottom of her ass was showing as she undulated her hips several inches off the bedspread.

  Lift up that skirt all the way. Now.

  This time, she didn’t bother to tease out whether it was his desire or hers, his demand or her own. She was too far gone, about to explode into flame. She lifted her skirt to her waist, fully exposing her ass. Pressing her hot cheek and breasts against the cool duvet, she drew her knees up under her, still pulsing her hips and ass to the driving beat of the music.

  She spread her thighs wider. She’d crossed the boundary. There was no going back.

  His stare pierced her, even when she couldn’t bring herself to meet it. He saw all of her now. She reached between her thighs and cupped her sex. Her finger slid between her labia onto her simmering clit. Another plunged into her slit.

  Trey.

  Her undulating hips wavered. Her body seized.

  Pleasure splintered her awareness.

  She came back to herself at the sound of her own sharp cries. They segued into breathy moans.

  The reality of what she’d just done entered her awareness sluggishly, even while she still rippled and vibrated in pleasure. Despite the unwanted return of her self-consciousness, she still swam in hot, sticky pleasure. She continued to shamelessly rub herself, groaning as aftershocks pulsed through her body. She was drenched . . . wetter than she’d ever experienced herself to be.

  She lay facedown on the mattress with her ass raised the air, her legs spread apart, her pussy exposed and wet. Trey Riordan’s stare bore right through just like it had that first time in the coffee shop tonight.

  Except this time, it did it from the rear view and sliced right up to her heart.

  It shocked her, how intimate it’d all felt. Shouldn’t their exchange have been as distant as the space that separated them? It scared her a little. She’d thought she’d be safe, that space between them like the zone between audience and performer.

  True, she’d held him in the palm of her hand. It was as though he’d been right there with her in the moment. But as every second passed, she felt more and more alone. She’d just brought herself off in front of an absolute stranger.

  Mixed mortification and renewed arousal swept through her. Yes, arousal, because she’d loved having the power to hold every ounce of his attention at her mercy.

  She pulled her hand away from her sex. It dropped to the mattress near her face. For a tense moment, she just listened to the ragged sound of her breathing while her ass and sex tingled and burned. She’d exposed herself to him minutes ago, but she hadn’t actually felt naked until now.

  Her sexual confidence evaporated with the speed of her cooling body. It stunned her, what she’d just done . . . how far she’d lost herself to the moment. God, what was Trey doing now? Was he masturbating, like she had been doing for him? If so, was he finished?

  Was he even still there?

  Maybe her own single-minded lust had caused her to imagine his stare on her like a burning touch.

  Overwhelmed by a wave of anxiety, she abruptly pushed herself off the bed. With her back to the window, she shoved her skirt down, covering her ass. For a moment, she just stood there with her head lowered, her fingers clutching at the bottom of her skirt, her mind awash with uncertainty.

  She may have walked the walk. She may have played the part. But the role had abandoned her like an unfaithful lover. She was left standing there clutching her skirt like a little girl caught red-handed, her cheeks and eyelids burning, feeling foolish and ashamed of her impulsivity . . .

  Of her gargantuan need for a man she didn’t even know.

  Her lungs hitched uncomfortably when she tried to inhale.

  It was regular, boring Eleanor who enacted the anticlimactic finale to her performance. She hurried out of the bedroom, too cowardly to turn and look Trey Riordan directly in the face, too timid to take that full, greedy bite out of life that she so longed to taste.

  FOUR

  On Tuesday night, Eleanor put on the finishing touches to her “costume.” She’d been too nervous to enter the guest bedroom since her infamous window dance last night, too afraid to look out the window. She didn’t know which would be worse, to see his empty bedroom or to see him.

  Despite her uncertainty, she had slowly rebuilt her defenses last night and today at work. She’d willfully quashed her mortification at her shameless, hedonistic display. It hadn’t been embarrassing (or so she tried to convince herself). It had been confident and sensual, to seduce what she’d wanted so badly for so long. She wanted one glorious night of no-holds-barred passion with the most beautiful, desirable man she’d ever seen.

  There was nothing wrong with knowing what you wanted and going for it.

  The memories of those heart-pounding moments of the dance increasingly took center stage in her mind while she toiled away in the library’s basement all day, helping to convince her. She recalled how excited she’d been, how powerful she’d felt witnessing Trey’s blatant, honest male arousal and absolute focus on her. She still cringed when she thought about facing him tonight at the museum’s reading event. Nevertheless, she was preparing to go.

  Maybe it was because the idea of him not showing, of him avoiding her because he’d found her display embarrassing in the aftermath, pained her even more than giving up. How else could she reassure herself on that count unless she went to the coffee shop tonight, book in hand, and saw firsthand if he was willing to face her or not?

  She’d chosen her outfit for the evening from Caddy’s wardrobe—a sexy black romper with opaque black thigh-highs and boots. The romper had a darling, oversized white schoolgirl-like collar, its modesty in direct contrast to the garment’s short length and the provocative way the knit tightly fitted her breasts, waist and rib cage. The boots she chose went several inches above her knee and were made of black leather with a three-inch chunky heel. Panties and bra remained in her drawer. The white collar cleverly dipped down to obscure her nipples, while the clinging knit suggested—strongly—the truth about her braless state. It was a wardrobe tease, one of those features that got you thinking . . . Is she, or isn’t she? Eleanor loved it. Besides, she’d already showed Trey everything. No need to grow modest now.

  The romper’s fabric hung loose around her hips and thighs. When she stood with her legs slightly parted, she could feel the air caressing her sex. The sensation aroused her, maybe even more so than it had the first night she’d gone into public without underwear.

  She was transforming into a shameless exhibitionist, no doubt about it.

  She’d just donned a short black suede trench coat and was finger-combing her long, loosely curled hair over the faux-fur collar when the house phone rang. As she lifted the receiver, she had a sinking feeling. Only Harry, the doorman, typically called on the house phone, and Harry called only when she had a delivery or a visitor. It was too late for a delivery. She had a pretty good suspicion whom the visitor would be.

  “Hello?”

  “Caddy, it’s Harry downstairs. Your gorgeous mama is here to see you,” Harry Carver boomed warmly into the receiver.

  Eleanor heard a sharp female voice in the background. She didn’t reply at first, too stunned at unexpectedly being called her sister’s name. There was an uncomfortable pause on the line.

  “Oh, Je
sus, I’m so sorry, Eleanor,” Harry apologized rapidly. He sounded very upset. Eleanor’s heart went out to him.

  “It’s okay, Harry,” she assured.

  “I dialed the number and was looking at your mom, and it just came out—”

  “I understand. Really. My mom came to visit Caddy here hundreds of times. It’s only natural.”

  She glanced down at her sexy outfit, frowning. She wouldn’t have time to change if she wanted to actually make the event. Her mother was a professor of psychology. As a psychologist’s daughter, Eleanor had an uncomfortable suspicion about her mother’s theory on why Eleanor was dressing up in her big sister’s clothes.

  “You can go ahead and send my mom up, Harry,” she finally said resignedly.

  “Will do. And again, I’m sorry about that . . . before.”

  Eleanor closed her eyes. She knew how much Harry had doted on Caddy.

  “It’s okay, Harry,” she said softly. “I consider it a compliment, to be accidentally called her name.”

  She heard Harry’s gruff, uncomfortable laugh before she hung up the phone.

  Catherine Briggs was always certain to bring two things with her on her surprise visits to her daughters: a sumptuous Russian delicacy and unwanted motherly advice. For Caddy and Eleanor, the former had always gone a long way in helping them endure the latter, a fact they expected their mother knew and for which she planned.

  Her parents lived in Evanston, where her father was a professor of physics at Northwestern University. Her mother commuted downtown to her job in the psychology department at Loyola University. This meant that Caddy and Eleanor had long been subject to her unannounced drop-ins.

  “Are you going out?” Catherine Briggs asked bluntly when Eleanor opened the door a minute later. Eleanor was putting on her gloves, making it abundantly clear to her mother she definitely was going out. She felt her mother’s sharp gaze drop down over her. The outfit was toned down with the coat closed and belted, but Eleanor immediately knew her mother wasn’t fooled. She still looked dressed to kill in Caddy’s sleek, expensive clothing.

  “I have an event at the museum,” Eleanor said, reaching to take the glass-lidded casserole dish her mother held clutched against her practical, wool winter coat.

  “You’re going to the museum dressed like that?” her mother asked disapprovingly as she stepped over the threshold and Eleanor shut the door behind her. Eleanor turned to hide her eye roll.

  “That’s the idea, yes,” she said with forced breeziness as she walked toward the kitchen, casserole dish in hand. “I was just on my way out the door. What’d you bring me? Beef pirog? Yum. I’ll never become a ballerina if you keep feeding me like this.”

  “You and your sister were marvelous dancers. I always said it was a pity to waste such talent.”

  It was a long-standing, scripted exchange between Eleanor, Caddy and their mom upon being presented with one of her delicious, rich dishes. Eleanor and Caddy were kidding saying it, of course. But somehow, their mom always had seemed to genuinely believe her daughters had come this close to becoming prima ballerinas, while she fed them diets suitable for a professional Russian weight lifter.

  “Why are you in the city so late?” Eleanor asked as she popped the casserole dish inside the refrigerator.

  “Late faculty meeting.” Eleanor turned to see her mom shrewdly peering at her over her professorial glasses. “I was hoping we’d have time to talk this evening.”

  Eleanor checked her watch. “I’m sorry. I’m already running late. We can talk tomorrow when I come to the house? We’re still planning on cooking for Thanksgiving tomorrow night, right?”

  “Of course. But your father will be there. I think we should talk about this now, woman to woman,” her mother said while waving her hand, indicating Eleanor’s outfit.

  “This?” Eleanor asked, feigning confusion. She refused to willingly go down this path with her mother. No, she’d kick and scream the whole way.

  “Yes, this.” Her mom made a stabbing motion in the direction of Eleanor’s person. “The way you’ve been wearing Cad’s clothes recently, the way you’re doing your hair and wearing your makeup. It’s not you, Eleanor.”

  “Mom, I don’t have time for this right now—”

  “I’m concerned about you, honey. So is your dad.”

  “Then how come you don’t want Dad to hear you talking to me about it?”

  Her mom ignored her, which was typical if a comment strayed from the point she was determined to make.

  “We never thought it was a good idea for you to move right into the condo so soon after Caddy . . .” Her mother’s still-pretty face creased with anguish as she faded off. Despite her annoyance, Eleanor’s heart squeezed in her chest. Her mother could be bossy and overbearing, but Caddy had been the apple of her eye, the princess who was destined to become queen. It pained Eleanor to see such a strong woman still unable to speak of her daughter’s death in concrete terms.

  “It’s okay, Mom. It’s not what you’re thinking,” Eleanor said. As always, she felt cornered by her mother’s overbearing nature coupled with the fact that she loved her like crazy and despised seeing her vulnerable.

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “You’re worried about me, obviously. But I’m fine,” Eleanor said pointedly before she headed out of the kitchen.

  “Eleanor, have you even cried? I mean, really cried. You didn’t at the funeral. Your father and I have never seen it since then. What I’m thinking—and what your father is thinking too—is that you’re grieving in a . . . well, an unnatural way.”

  Eleanor spun around in the hallway, infuriated by her mother’s intrusiveness. “I’m so sorry I haven’t wailed and rended my garments sufficiently to please you. Besides, I’m not grieving at the moment, Mom. I’m trying to live.”

  The worry lines on her mother’s face grew deeper as she stepped toward her. God, Eleanor did not feel up to dealing with this. Not now.

  “I think you’re dealing with Caddy being gone by trying to embody her . . . the way you’re wearing her clothes and coming off so . . .”

  “Bold? Pretty? Confident? Did Caddy hold the patent on those things?”

  “No, of course not. But it’s not you, Eleanor.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mom.”

  “Don’t go histrionic on me. You know that’s not what I meant.”

  “Do you mean I’m not acting like the boring, wallflower librarian who conveniently blends into the background? Is that what you mean, Mom?”

  “At the very least, I’d like you to recognize what you’re doing and why you’re doing it!”

  “Don’t preach to me from your psychoanalytic pedestal. I know you’re thinking about Caddy and missing her just as much as I am with our first holiday season coming up without her. Don’t project all your stuff onto me.”

  “You couldn’t be more mistaken,” her mother said imperiously.

  Eleanor pointed toward the kitchen. “Beef pirog? It was Caddy’s favorite. You made it a lot for her, but you made it for Dad and her every Thanksgiving. You haven’t made it since she passed.” She noticed her mother’s incredulous expression. “You see? You’re not the only one who can psychoanalyze, Mom.”

  Her mother inhaled, gathering herself. She straightened to her full height of five foot seven. Even though Eleanor had topped her by two inches for a decade now, she still felt about five years old whenever Catherine Briggs took on that regal stance and expression. She made a sound of exasperation.

  “Do you really want to know why I’m dressing up in Caddy’s clothes? It’s not because I’m trying to embody her, or at least that’s not the main reason.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s because before she died, she told me to live every day like it was my last. She told me to stop being afraid and to take a bite out of li
fe. That’s why I’m acting the way I’m acting. It’s not because I’m trying to bring Caddy back by being like her. It’s because I’m trying to take advice she gave me while she was dying. Do you think I should ignore her deathbed advice, Mom?”

  Her mother’s lower lip quivered. Eleanor immediately regretted her sharp outburst. She’d had the nerve to say those taboo words—dying and death—in association with Caddy.

  “I’m not so sure that taking her advice and embodying her are two separate issues,” her mom said after a moment.

  “Please, Mom—”

  “Did she really say that to you?” her mother asked shakily.

  Tears stung her eyes, witnessing her mom’s vulnerability. “Would I lie about something like that? Of course she did,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Hush, now. I didn’t come here to fight with you.” She stepped forward and took Eleanor into her arms. Eleanor stood stiff in her embrace for several seconds.

  “You always say that, but we usually do,” Eleanor mumbled. Despite her annoyance and uncertainty about her mother’s argument, after a moment she hugged her back tightly.

  She may be infuriating, but she was Eleanor’s mom, and Caddy’s too. She was a fellow sufferer. How could Eleanor possibly withhold her love, knowing that?

  —

  No matter how much he wrestled with his concentration, he couldn’t seem to pin it down on his book. How could he care about the social intricacies of a Regency country ball, how much money Mr. Bingley made in a year or anything about that stuck-up jerk Mr. Darcy, when her seat was empty?

  People were creatures of habit. Trey had taken his exact same cushy armchair, and it seemed to him that most of the people in the crowded, hushed coffee shop had done the same with their former seats. It also was apparent that he wasn’t the only man in the room who kept glancing over at the empty chair by the window. He certainly noticed that Black Beard kept peering up from his book to beadily scan the room.

  There was a clock on the wall next to a newly erected Christmas tree. The second hand ticked off another minute. It was quarter past eight. His temptress—the very same woman he should be avoiding at all costs—was either late, or she wasn’t coming.