Women aren’t supposed to ask questions like that. We should be pursued; we should always know our power. But I don’t. And I need to know. He’s my best friend, and we shouldn’t have to tiptoe around our feelings. We should be able to have a rational and open discussion about this ridiculously huge thing that has been dominating my spare thought processes for the last … hell … even before Craig and I ended.
My phone beeps, and I pick it up off the bedspread.
— Devastatingly so.
I stare at the response, my heart pulled between elation and fear, a flood of new questions arising. I mull them over and wait for him to ask me the same question, but the phone stays dark. Should I tell him that I feel the same way? No. I can’t. I roll onto my back and hesitantly type out the next question, reading over it several times before I press send.
Then why aren’t we together?
I lay the phone on my chest and stare at the ceiling. Part of me regrets bringing this up. What if he wants to start a relationship? Do I even want that? I’ve known him for fourteen months, and he hasn’t had a steady girlfriend that entire time. Would he be good boyfriend material? Can he be loyal? Is he romantic? Too many questions and no answers. I pick up my phone and double-check that my text was delivered. It shouldn’t take this long to respond, to provide a simple answer to such an important question. I close my eyes and attempt to relax, focusing on my feet and slowly moving up my body, relaxing one muscle group at a time, my arms loose and rubbery by the time my phone finally dings. I slowly roll to my side and lift my phone, reading his response.
— too much at risk
The brevity of it irritates me, as if he didn’t have the energy to go into greater detail. But in those four words, I understand his stance. It’s the same logic I’ve told myself a hundred times. He went down this road with Vicka, and his company had tanked as a result. Dating Trey could ruin Marks Lingerie’s forward progress, not to mention our friendship. In some ways our bond seems unflappable. In other ways, we seem as fragile as glass. No one else can hurt me like this. No one else’s opinion is as important. No one else can break my heart as easily as he could mend it.
If he thinks there is too much at risk, then fine. I can cross Trey Marks off my list of prospects and dive back into the world of dating. I can find someone else, someone better for me, someone without consequences. I can find a relationship that, if it ends, won’t destroy every other part of our lives.
I don’t need Trey in my bed, as my boyfriend. I can be happy having him everywhere else.
I don’t know if it’s a lie or not, and in this moment, I don’t care. I wrap my hand around my phone, slide it under the pillow, and close my eyes.
I wake to a note from Mira, one slipped under my door, her handwriting big and flowery. In it, she cancels our lunch, full of apologies and promises to find me on a future trip. The note is attached to a purchase order, one that Trey must have prepared, the unit count enough to make our quarter, if not our year. I roll my eyes and toss it onto the bed.
There is a knock on the adjoining door and I open it, giving Trey a tight smile and returning to my suitcase, the zipper difficult. He pushes down on the lid and I work it closed. “Thanks.”
“Certainly.” He is in khakis and a polo, the bright blue cotton setting off his tan. This is country-club Trey, the preppy look that used to get me hot, the clean-cut exterior so easily twisted with just one smoldering eye-fuck. Used to get me hot. Today I am a new woman, one perfectly content in my Best Friend and Creative Director roles, one who doesn’t wonder what he looks like naked, or what that delicious mouth is capable of.
He strolls over to the bed, reaching forward and picking up the items from Mira. “What’s this?” He flips over the top page, his head dropping as he reads over it. “I thought she was sending this to me.”
“Did you see the note?” I say brightly. “She cancelled our lunch.”
“Yeah. I told her to.” He glances at me. “I figured you wouldn’t want to eat with her after…” He grimaces. “You know.”
“Oh yes.” I smile again, and his eyes narrow. “I know.” I step forward and pluck the pages back. “I would have been fine having lunch with her. I don’t need you running around and rearranging my schedule.”
“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds unsettled, which makes me ridiculously happy. I can do this. I can be the cool girl, the friend who doesn’t care that her friend, her boss, is devastatingly attracted to her. I can roll my eyes at his slutty antics and go off and marry a different Prince Charming. We can build this company, be friends, and I can have smoking hot sex and babies who have nothing to do with Trey Marks.
I can have it all. I can. I will.
He looks at me and I look at him, and if he kisses me right now, I would fall apart under his touch.
He holds the gaze, and I look away, afraid of what my eyes might show.
chapter 11
Her
Four months later, I find my prince in a coffee shop downtown. Or rather, he finds me.
“Kate?” I look up and swallow the sip of coffee, my eyes darting over all of the details.
Soft brown hair, void of product.
Pale green eyes, the kind that smile. He wears glasses, and I unconsciously touch my own, glad that I’d skipped the contacts today.
His features are as advertised, a classic profile set off by straight, perfect teeth and an adorably crooked nose.
A blue sweater, the fabric snug around a manly build, his height tall enough that I can wear heels and still be shorter.
I rise, and extend a hand. “Hi. You must be Stephen.” We shake hands, and it is a good handshake, firm but not businesslike, his hands soft and warm, everything about him reassuringly conservative. “Please, sit down.”
He pulls out the opposite seat and settles into it, and there is a moment of awkward silence, one where I sip my coffee and he straightens his glasses, and I can’t, for the life of me, think of a single thing to say. Our eyes meet, he smiles, and I laugh despite myself.
“This is my fifth blind date,” he admits. “You’d think I would have learned something aside from my name by now.”
“My eighth.” I smile. “You look like you recently bathed, so you don’t really have to say anything. You’re already ahead of the rest.” It’s a lie, and he knows it, but he leans forward and conversation begins to flow.
“So you work in retail?” He tucks his hands into his pockets as we walk, his head down, ear cocked to me.
“Sort of. I work for an undergarments company. We supply to retail shops and some high-end chains.”
“Undergarments. Like underwear, hosiery?”
I nod, pulling back my hair into a low ponytail. “Yes. Less hosiery and more of the delicate items. Bras, panties, garters, babydolls. The sexier stuff. Our lines are fairly provocative.”
Trey would have made a sly comment, worked a compliment in, but Stephen only nods, his face a mask of concentration. “And what do you do for the company?”
“I model.”
The joke falls flat, and he only nods, as if I am serious, as if there is any chance of my frame on a cover. “I’m joking,” I hurry. “I’m the Creative Director; I’m responsible for the overall vision and the execution of it.” I feel the burst of pride that comes whenever I say my title.
“That’s nice.” We take the path into the park, a canopy of trees providing a break from the sun. His arm brushes mine, a reminder of where I am and who I am with. Not Trey, who is accustomed to my long stretches of silence, but this man, who probably thinks I’m odd. I am trying to think of something to say when he speaks. “How long have you been there?”
I relax a bit. “A year and a half.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“I do,” I say honestly. “Trey is very good to work for. We get along well.”
“That’s nice.”
I ask him what he does, and learn th
at he is an oral surgeon. A fancy dentist, as he says. He travels two days a week, has a rescued dog, and a mother in Chula Vista. We both love sushi and hate Star Wars. We are both Words With Friends enthusiasts, and—unless I am misreading the look in his eye—we both want to see each other again.
We end our walk at the parking lot. Ahead of us, my bright red Mercedes convertible sits, a gift from Trey when we hit last year’s sales goal. He reaches into his pocket and a new Volvo SUV beeps. “That’s me.”
He turns to me and smiles. It’s a nice smile, one warm and friendly. He steps forward and my heart speeds up. A kiss. My first kiss since Craig. Would I remember how to do it properly?
He extends a hand. “Thank you for meeting me. And for not being a serial killer.”
I laugh, and take his hand. “Agreed. I was actually planning on being a serial killer but decided against it. My day is kind of full. Meetings.” I smile and I think he can tell I’m joking.
He steps back and waves. “I’ll call you. If that is okay.”
“It is.” I return the wave, and wait for him to turn, to walk away before I dig into my pockets for my keys.
“You told him you were a serial killer?” The wind ruffles the papers in Trey’s hand, and I glance toward them worriedly.
“Can we step inside?” I ask. “You’re going to lose something.”
He pushes the door open with his foot, holding it in place as he waves me through. “Is that what you wore?”
“No, I went home and changed,” I say tartly. “Yes, this is what I wore. It’s nice.” The questionable outfit—a Jones New York skirt suit, one I had paired with a sweetheart top. Not the most casual of first date attire, but I’d met Stephen in the middle of a work day. A mini-dress hadn’t exactly seemed appropriate.
“Yes,” he agrees, pulling the door closed, the wind quieting, the sound of sports coming from another room. “It’s nice. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
I pull off my suit’s jacket and hang it over his stairway banister, pulling the hair away from my neck and following him to the kitchen, where he straddles a stool and flips over the first page of the contract. “You don’t want to dress nice when you go on a date, Kate.”
“Sorry,” I respond tartly. “We can’t all work from home during the playoffs.” I open his fridge, reaching down to the bottom drawer, where he keeps my Diet Coke. I grab one and push the drawer closed with my foot, elbowing the door shut before turning to him. His eyes flick up to my face. “Grab me one?”
“A Diet Coke?” I raise my eyebrows. He doesn’t drink diet. More than that, he scoffs at any man who does.
“There are regular ones in the same drawer. Underneath yours.”
I yank open the door and bend back over, digging through the ice cold pile of bottles, getting frustrated when I can’t … I look over my shoulder and see Trey settled back on the stool, one foot up on the adjoining stool, his eyes fixed on my ass. I straighten and his eyes jump to mine. “What?” he asks.
“You don’t have any regulars in there.”
“Maybe they’re in the other drawer, to the left of it. But arch your back this time. And moan a little.”
I sling my can of Diet Coke at his head, and he catches it, one-handed, a mischievous smile lighting up his face. “What? I’m thirsty!”
“I’m sure you are,” I grumble, kicking the door shut and leaning against the counter. “I ought to sue your ass for sexual harassment. “
“Wear that suit in court and no one will believe you.”
“It’s not that bad.” I glare at him and steal my soda back, tapping the lid before I crack it open.
“What’s underneath it?”
I ignore him and push the contract forward. “Sign this so I can get out of your hair.”
“Fine. Come over here and explain it to me.” He drops his foot from the other stool and pulls it out, his hand fishing in the top drawer of the island for a pen.
Trey Marks has several sides, but his business mode is the most tempting. It’s the seriousness that takes over his face, the somber tone, that smooth tongue that delivers words like boning, peephole, and thong without hesitation. I’ve taken advantage of it, stocking our meetings with female buyers, their reactions similar to my own, the entire room one big estrogen explosion by the time he slips his hands into his pockets and strolls out.
Now, I move to his side of the island and perch on the stool, leaning forward and pulling the cover page back into place. I have barely begun my explanation when I feel the tip of his pen pulling up the edge of my skirt. I stall, my eyes dropping to my thighs, the skirt inching higher, past my knees, now my thighs. My hose ends, my skin pale against the edge of the black lace, and my breath catches when the tip of the metal crosses onto my skin. “Easy…” he says slowly. “I’m just checking…” He slides the pen along the top of my stocking, until he reaches the garter clip. “What are these, the Mirabellas?”
“Yes.” I reach down to tug the skirt back into place and he swats away my hands.
“Put your hands on the counter, Kate. This isn’t going anywhere.”
This isn’t going anywhere? This has already gone somewhere it shouldn’t.
“I’m not touching you, Kate. Calm down.” He sounds so mild, as if he is examining packaging samples or marketing copy.
I let out a frustrated breath. “What are you doing?” We don’t do this. This is not playful flirtation, not when I am wet from just the touch of his pen.
“Put your hands on the counter. Flat. Palms down. Trust me.”
In eighteen months, he has ordered me to do many things. I almost always obey. Not always because I want to, but because I like to. When he uses that voice, it does something inside of me. Something that felt—back when I was engaged to Craig—wicked. Put your hands on the counter. Flat. Palms down. I glance down at his pen, the metal tip of it next to the lace of my stocking. He drags the point lightly against my skin and I close my eyes. I carefully place my hands on the cool surface of his counter, my fingers spreading over the marble, lines of silver and blue across the giant expanse of white. Trust me. In some ways, I trust him with my life. In other ways, these ways, I wouldn’t put anything past him. Will he lower his mouth to mine? Maybe. Will he slide his hands up my sweater and brush his fingers over my breasts? I hope so.
“You know we’ve had some complaints of the elastic getting stretched out on these.” He slides the pen underneath the top of the stocking, his eyes on the motion, and I watch as he tilts his head, watching the nylon stretch. “Have you experienced that?”
“No.”
“I’m going to slide my hand under here.”
“Why?”
“I want to.” His eyes lock with mine, his hand not hesitating as he sets the pen down on the counter, and reaches his hand forward. I can hear the roll of the pen as it moves toward the edge, but I can’t look away, can’t breathe, as he holds my eyes with his. “Is that okay, Kate?”
His hand closes on my thigh, a warm grip of ownership, and I close my eyes.
“Is that okay, Kate?”
I can’t answer him. If I speak, I’ll beg. If I say anything at all, he will know just how badly I want him.
He slides his hand along the inside of my leg, his palm along the lace, his thumb on my bare skin, playing with it as he moves. “Open your legs, Kate. Uncross them.”
“Trey.” It is the best defense I can manage. I think of Mira, of smelling her perfume, and I reach out to grab his wrist, to pull it away—
“Just your right hand on the counter.” He moves off his stool, coming closer, and I can smell his cologne, feel the brush of his shirt against my sleeve. I remove one hand from the counter, my body swiveling to him, and my knees brush against the thigh of his jeans. “This is market research, Kate. I’m just examining the product. Now, open your legs before I pull them apart myself.”
I open them. I let my feet hang loose from the stool and open my kne
es, one heel dropping to the floor, the sound loud, my shoulders jumping in response. I lift my eyes to him, and he slowly nods, holding me with his stare. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t blink, and I’d be surprised if he is even breathing. For a moment, both of us just are. Then he drops his head, and I watch as his second hand joins in, both tracing over the place where my garters clip to my stockings. He runs his fingers up, my shirt stopping his hand, the fabric restricted by my butt on the stool. He softly clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Stand up.”
“I’m not standing up.”
“Kate.”
“Stop saying my name. I’m not standing up.” If I stand up, then my panties are going to end up coming off, and this is going to go to a very bad place, a place that I have been wanting for over a year, but that doesn’t matter right now, none of that matters right now, because this isn’t just Trey, this is the owner of Marks Lingerie, and if he—he slides his hands underneath my skirt, and I gasp when his fingers reach the bottom edge of my underwear. My other heel hits the floor.
He tilts his head, his fingers caressing the silk, then the top of my thighs, then the detailed edge between them. “Are these from the fall collection?”
“Winter.” The word whispers out of me. “Please stop.” I’m so wet. He hasn’t even done anything, hasn’t even kissed me, and I am so needy, so desperate.
“You want me to stop?” His fingers stop their play above my thighs, and he slides one slow, sure hand in between my legs, his touch soft and teasing, my legs opening wider despite myself, my hips thrusting upward, begging for him to—
He brushes his fingers across my clit, and I whimper. He slides his fingers lower, in between my legs, pressing into the damp area, and when he says my name, it is a swear across his lips. “Stop,” I beg.
“I don’t know if I can.”
Him
I mean it when I say it. I don’t know if I can stop. Not when she sits on the edge of the stool, her skirt pushed up, knees spread, her legs limp and hanging open. I stand before her, one hand squeezing and caressing her thigh. My other hand is seriously fucking with my mind. It plays with her pussy, her sweet pussy, a thin bit of my lingerie the only thing between my skin and hers. I’m terrified to move those panties aside; I’m terrified, if I touch her bare heat, if I feel the smooth skin or silky hair, that I will lose all control. If I push one finger, or two, inside of her … god damn. How will I stop myself from yanking at my belt, my zipper? How will I stop myself from freeing my cock and thrusting it inside of her? I am just seconds away from being able to have her, from gripping her ass and pulling her onto me, from pushing deep inside and fully owning this incredible woman. I could fist her hair and kiss her mouth. I could taste her, have her, please her. I could spread her open on my counter and tease every part of her with my tongue, my fingers, my dick. I could tell her how I feel and plead for her heart. I could come inside of her, and have her for the rest of my fucking life.
Love in Lingerie Page 9