by Zoey Long
He laughs at that.
“I know, I don’t even have a real table but I have a custom wine rack and heated towels. Priorities, I guess.”
“Artists, man,” I joke.
I follow him out of the bathroom and gasp when I see the time flashing on the digital clock near his bed. How the fuck is it 11:30? I start looking for my clothes, my panties, my bra, my tights, the dress I came in with. I’m holding the fluffy warm towel closed tight against my chest when I bend over, looking for my phone so I can check the train schedule.
“Carrie...” I hear his voice from behind me. I turn around swiftly, my boots and phone in hand. He’s been watching me reach for my clothes all over the floor. He smiles warmly.
“You don’t have to go back to campus tonight if you don’t want to. It’s late. You can stay here. We can just sleep.”
I drop my leather boots instantly and they land on his hardwood floor with a thud.
Chapter 10: Adam
Well, there’s no going back now. It must be five am or so, judging from the temperature of the light outside. All blue. I’m lying awake in bed on my back, one arm behind my head, early morning light streaming in through the windows and coloring the walls. I’m shirtless, naked except for a pair of white boxers. Carrie Desmond is asleep in bed next to me. She stayed the night. She fell asleep almost immediately once I said she could stay over, like she didn’t have a care in the world. I look next to me, moving gingerly as not to wake her up. She’s lying on her side, facing away from me. Her abundant deep red hair falling down her back and over the white bedspread, red on white like an apple that’s been split open. She’s wearing an ivory slip from our costume stash. I said she could sleep in anything she wanted, anything I owned. The excitable actress in her fled directly to the antique wooden costume chest and plunged her downy limbs straight into it, digging around in the depths of it like a treasure chest. She probably thinks it’s bottomless, like she can dig deeper and deeper and pull out countless items. I wish it was. What she chose was a simple bias cut slip, not dissimilar to the one she wore as Maggie the Cat. I doubt she’s ever slept in real silk before. I want to put all kinds of luxury fabrics against her skin, and then take them off.
I’d be lying if I said I knew what the fuck I was doing. I know it wasn’t just the wine, or the circumstance. I kept putting my head in the lion’s mouth expecting not to be eaten. Now I’ve been swallowed up and it’s my own fault. I follow the line of her body with my eyes, wanting to run my fingertips over her skin again.
“Mmm,” she moans, lying on her back suddenly. I stiffen, lying still as stone. Her arms are resting like goal posts up near her face, palms up toward the ceiling. Her chest rises and falls with her breath, the smallest outline of cleavage peeking up from the ivory silk cups of the slip. In the blue light of earliest morning, no makeup on her face, she’s as breathtaking as I’ve ever seen her.
I take my fingertip and run it along her torso, along the silk, as lightly as possible. She doesn’t move. I jerk my hand back and fold my palms together, resting them resolutely on my chest before looking back over at her sleeping form. It feels like she’s something precious, valuable. Like a piece of jewelry that’s been showcased for decades in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I remember the look of jewel encrusted gold necklaces preserved for thousands of years. Having her here like this is so odd, it feels like one of the most precious jewels known to man has somehow escaped from its well-lit glass case and is lying next to me in bed. How can this be happening? It feels illicit, dangerous. I’m nauseated with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. It feels exhilarating and terrible all at once.
She rolls over again, this time rolling toward me and falling on my chest. My muscles tense as she nestles her face into my neck loosely, nuzzling me lightly with her face. We settle into this position and she smells so good that I want to hold her tight against my body. I want to kiss her again, and taste her lips. She wraps her arm around my torso and her skin feels even softer than the slippery fabric of the chemise. I permit myself to hold her there, matching the rhythm of my breath to hers.
“Good morning!”
Carrie is sitting straight up in my bed, hovering over me. One of the ivory straps on the chemise has fallen down her arm, and her right nipple is nearly peeking out, erect. The studio is flooded with bright yellow light streaming in from the windows from the ceiling to the white walls. I wipe my eyes and ask her what time it is.
“Ten,” she says nonchalantly, fixing the strap.
“Wow, guess we were tired,” I wipe my eyes, yawning.
She smirks at me in that “yeah I know how we got tired” sort of way. She’s almost bouncing up and down, she looks so energetic. Like an excited puppy. I smile at her. There’s no foreboding sense about her, no feeling at all that we’re totally fucked here. It’s enviable.
“Can I kiss you good morning?” she asks.
I nod, unable to resist those lips. The kiss itself is so sweet and warm that it almost kills the anxious knot twisting in my stomach. In a flash she’s out of bed, standing barefoot on the hardwood floor, heading toward the kitchen. Angie meows and weaves around Carrie’s long legs.
“Good morning, kitty,” she says sweetly, bending down for a moment to pet her. I hear the opening and shutting of cabinets and her sudden ease and comfort in my home comes across as endearing rather than rude.
“Coffee?” she calls from the kitchen in a tone that lets me know she’s looking for it rather than offering it to me.
“Cabinet. There’s kona in there. I have milk and sugar if you need. Hang on, I can do that for us if you...”
“Nope. Found it!” she exclaims, slamming a cabinet door closed. I sit up and peer into the kitchen to see her reaching on her tiptoes to the uppermost cabinet, the line of her slip rising up until it hits just below her ass. She gets two ceramic cups and my folding table and sets them up next to me in bed.
“Such service,” I smile at her.
“And why not, professor?” She winks at me before turning on her heel and heading back to the kitchen.
Ah shit. This whole professor nickname is going to be a thing now, isn’t it? I look down under the sheets and see my substantial morning wood has no objections.
She pours two cups of coffee and asks me how I take it before sitting down next to me on the bed, blocking my ability to sit up fully. Her legs are pressed together near my face and I see the constellation of freckles on her thighs and knees clearly in the morning light. She sips her coffee and finger combs her burning red locks, smiling at me.
I move to prop myself up against the wall behind my bed and she moves to accommodate me.
“You’re a lovely sight for a Saturday morning,” I say, smiling widely at her, folding my arms across my bare chest. I’m sure I look a mess, but I’m hoping to be on the side of scruffy sexy. Carrie rubs her feet together and holds one of my oversized green mugs in both of her hands at once, taking a long sip.
“Mmm, this is way better than campus coffee,” she says, swallowing it. “That shit is gross.”
“Listen, Carrie...” I begin, locking her gaze. She interrupts me immediately.
“Okay. Adam, please. I really do understand what this is. I like you, you like me, I am not freaking out, I am happy about everything that happened last night, I’d like to see more of you and I really…”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
“Oh,” she says, embarrassed, swallowing another sip of coffee from behind my ceramic cup, then holding the rim of it against her lips.
“It’s pretty well established that we like each other, don’t you think?” I tease. A small smile peeks out from behind the cup before she sets it down on the table.
“Yes. I hope we can stop mentioning it so much and just enjoy each other’s company.”
She drops her shoulders and moves in to kiss me, a small kiss on the lips. Her face is still close to mine and I’m trying to me
morize the exact shade of her eyes in the morning light before I speak again. Fresh moss.
“Do you want to go out today?” I say finally. “I wanted to take you somewhere. Somewhere I think you’ll like. It is Saturday, after all.”
She perks up immediately. I almost expect her to start clapping her hands on the spot. Then she looks over to the heap of clothes next to my bed.
“All I have to wear is the cocktail dress I wore last night, though. Isn’t that silly?” she reminds me.
It is. I’ll be in jeans and a tee shirt to go where we’re headed. I do a mental intake of all the clothes I have in the apartment, the dresses, the underthings, the sizing and condition of each. I put up my finger to signal that she should wait a moment. I eye my boxers on the floor and bend over to get them, slip them over my rear before walking over to the costume chest. I know Lana kept some more casual options for spring and summer shoots hanging on the free standing rack at the back of the studio. I thumb through them, looking back and forth, humorously furrowing my brow when I look at Carrie, as if I were trying to decide what would work on her, like she wouldn’t look great in almost everything we have.
My fingers stop on a simple, A-line day dress, navy with short sleeves and a keyhole at the chest.
“Hmmm?” I ask her, holding up and out in front of me.
Her eyes widen with excitement and she reaches for the hanger, her pale hand jutting out at once. I place it on the bed. Immediately she pulls the ivory chemise up and over her head, peels it from her body in one go, and then she’s standing completely naked, facing me. I avert my eyes on instinct and she laughs.
“Please. You’ve been in my mouth,” she says coyly. It’s true. I have. Every last fully erect inch of me has been nestled between those pouty lips. I look back at her, tracing the achingly gorgeous outline of her hourglass shape with my eyes.
I walk over to her, completely naked in front of me, trailing the outline of her body with my finger as she shivers, moving from her clavicle down to her breast bone and stomach, delicately gliding past her pussy before pulling her in for a gentle kiss. I feel high, giddy on breaking the rules so blatantly, determined to enjoy her like this as much as possible. Every time logic or dread tries to enter my brain, I kick it out immediately.
“Where’s my bra?” she mutters to herself, bending over. She finds it, hooks her arms into it and fastens it effortlessly behind her back. Standing in just a black bra and panties, I have half a mind to bend her over my rumpled bed and take her from behind. There’s nothing about her that isn’t completely delicious.
Carrie then picks up the dress and steps into it, pulling it up and over her hips, and the fabric rushes effortlessly against her skin. She hooks her arms in and walks over to me, turning her back toward me, lifting her hair. She wants me to zip her up. She still hasn’t put her underwear on yet, and the open back of the dress shows just a hint of the top of her ass. I resist the urge to touch her ass, every moment is exquisite torture for me. I know that I will touch her, just not right now. Not when I’m dressing her. I grab the zipper and pull up slowly. It hums, and the dress conforms to her shape beautifully.
“Thanks,” she says, looking over her shoulder with a grin. Her lips part over her teeth in a beautiful smile. I’m distracted by the shape of her, the scent of her, how she looks in the dress.
“It spins, look!”
Carrie lifts the sides of the skirt with her hands and twirls in a circle, the navy fabric fanning out around her. She spins again, faster this time, and I can still see her big smile. She stops, laughter bubbling up and releasing freely. I’ve never seen her this relaxed before. Carrie walks over to the full length mirror, the same one I placed her in front of the night before, and studies herself momentarily. She arches her eyebrows, looks at her face from different angles, then picks up handfuls of her thick red hair in both hands and piles it on top of her head, holding it there, turning from one side to the other, admiring her shape.
“Do you have any more high heels?” she asks playfully.
Of course I do. I have shoes in so many colors and sizes and shapes that most women would die for.
By the time we leave my apartment, Carrie steps out in a pair of vintage 1940s-inspired black and white t-strap heels, a feminized version of oxfords. She chose to clip a white flower in her hair, one of the many hair accessories that Lana keeps at her vanity for our photo shoots. Her big smile and posture let me know that she’s absolutely tickled that I had several outfits at the ready for her to choose from this morning. There’s no walk of shame here.
I take her hand and we begin walking to the train. My only fear right now with this stunner on my arm is that somehow, someone will know that she’s my undergraduate student.
“Where are we headed, professor?” Carrie asks me cheekily, as if sensing my fear. She’s strutting as we walk together down the street. There’s no other word for it. The weather is absolutely perfect, sunny, blue skies, a light breeze. The dress is floating around her gorgeous body, the sunlight is bouncing off of her luxurious locks, the heels are clapping as she walks like they’re applauding her presence and I’m the lucky guy who gets to hold her hand.
And grade her papers.
I squeeze her hand in mine and lead her up to a busier avenue in my neighborhood with a lot of shops and cafes. Once there, a woman in a camel-colored trench coat carrying a cup of coffee looks us over as she passes, just for a moment, but it happened. Her boyfriend, in a t shirt and jeans, looks Carrie over very obviously up and down. A group of teenage girls stop texting and walking just to admire my companion, her retro look and her rockabilly hairstyle.
A few more steps and then I realize it. Carrie is catching the eye of everyone we pass, regardless of gender or sexual orientation. Women are looking her up and down, men are stopping to turn back and look for just a moment. Everyone is noticing her. Some people are smiling at me in appreciation or jealousy. But one thing’s for sure. This girl is a total showstopper.
I laugh to myself. “Do you... Can you see this?” I ask her.
“What?”
“Everyone is looking at you. You’re beautiful.”
She smiles and says that she’s used to getting attention, but she admits that right now it seems a little more over the top than usual. She thinks it’s the clothes. This pin-up look seems to be working well for her. Maybe she’s having a particularly good hair day, she says.
“Maybe we just look really good together.”
A rush of excitement gets my blood pumping. I’m so proud to have her on my arm and nervous at being discovered at the same time. A big part of me is loving showing her off like this. I feel like a proud peacock.
She’s sipping her iced coffee like a giddy school girl, swaying her hips and smiling with the straw in her mouth when we reach the boutique. Lingerie of every shape and style populates the store windows, all on a bubblegum pink backdrop. There are black lace bra and panty sets, waist cinchers, Cuban heel stockings and pumps, bustiers, corsets, satin robes, silk chemises. It’s one of the old school shops still in business in New York City, vintage lingerie for every body type, a pretty penny but their selection is unmatched.
I wink at Carrie and lead her inside the shop. She puts one high heeled foot on the marble step up to the front door and hesitates.
“Wait, hang on.”
She turns, taking her mouth from the lipstick-stained straw on her coffee and chucks it in a nearby trashcan. Her eyes are wide and buzzing at the sight of the boutiques’ store windows. She takes my hand and we go in slowly, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“I’ve only ever heard about this place!” she whispers. “I’ve never actually gone in. There’s always some rumor about it closing and feminine sexuality being over as we know it or something dramatic like that. ”
“This place will never close,” I whisper back. “Trust me. It’s an institution.”
A woman in an expertly tailored black suit
approaches us. She’s tall and thin with a dramatic bob haircut.
“Good morning, welcome!” she says, smiling widely at Carrie. “How can we help you?”
I step in before Carrie can say anything. “I want dress up this lovely lady right here.” I motion to Carrie. “This is one of my favorite places, we’re looking for vintage...”
“Mr. Clark, of course,” says the woman, recognizing me after a moment.
This is going better than I ever could have hoped. Carrie stands a bit straighter, obviously impressed that I’m recognized here, a famous lingerie store, the likes of which she’s only dreamed about.
“They’ve donated to some of our more high-profile shoots,” I explain. In truth, it was one photoshoot for a calendar last year, but that still counts.
“Yes, we’ve gladly donated to your boudoir shoots. Such lovely work.”
This woman is a professional. She won’t blow my spot. She looks Carrie up and down, glancing so quickly I don’t think Carrie herself even noticed. I love people who work in lingerie shops. They have this uncanny ability to size you up, literally, just at a glance. They call it a “holistic fitting.” Fuck tape measures.
The sales woman’s dark red lips break into a smile. “My dear, you’d look absolutely amazing in so many of our styles. This will be fun! A client as gorgeous as you are is easy to dress up. Would you like some champagne?”
The shop is pretty empty, save for a few quiet customers perusing the racks. We can really enjoy this woman’s full attention. I’ve been here on a busy day when it’s a whole different story, but for now I’m glad to be getting the A-list treatment. Carrie is delighted when the saleswoman returns, handing her a flute of pink champagne.
I take one as well and we’re asked what kinds of silhouettes we’re looking for.
“Smoldering temptress,” Carrie says suddenly, swallowing a sip of champagne. I laugh. Sounds good to me.
“What?” Carrie asks, nudging me in the side.
“We can certainly do that. Let me pull some looks for you, take a look around yourself, I’ll have a few choices set up in a room for you. Then we can do a proper fitting. My name is Jasmine, if you have any questions.”