Love in Lingerie

by Alessandra Torre

  I could scare her away and lose her forever.

  Stop, she’d said. I pull my hand away and straighten, putting one foot, then two, between us. I have to stop. I have to. Against the zipper of my jeans, my cock hates me even more.

  I turn away from her and take a breath, schooling my features, willing the raw need to leave my eyes. Had she seen it? How badly I want her? Of course she had. Touching her? What the fuck was I thinking?

  It had been the news of her date that had broken my restraint, the way she had bounded inside, full of stories and smiles, as if this guy was a possibility, as if he could, in any way, make her happy. I had seen hope in her eyes, and a panic switch in my heart had tripped.

  Stop, she’d said. I turn back to her and attempt the playful tone that has gotten me out of a hundred situations. “And you say I don’t follow directions.”

  She faces the island, the contracts spread out before her, and I know what I will see when I step beside her—control. My beautiful girl loves it, the hiding of emotion, so many interactions a game where her words don’t match her features, and her meanings are never easily deciphered.

  “Why did you care what I was wearing under my suit?” Her head doesn’t turn to me, it stays tilted down, over the contract, her fingers busy, pulling off and reaffixing SIGN HERE stickers that aren’t needed.

  “I wanted to know if you were at least giving the guy some sort of effort.”

  That causes her head to turn, and she looks at me as if I am mental. “It was our first date. A coffee date. He wasn’t going to see anything under my suit.”

  “Because … you told him you were a serial killer?” I feign confusion, furrowing my brow and earning a smile from her.

  “Because it was a FIRST DATE,” she intones. “We didn’t even kiss.” She taps the top of a page. “Come sign.”

  “He didn’t kiss you?” This is alarming, and I sit, pulling the first page toward me and scrawling my signature across the bottom.

  “No. Which kind of surprised me.” She tilts her head, watching me sign the second page, a slow smile spreading over her lips. “It was kind of nice, actually. He was such a gentleman about it.”

  This I don’t need. Her gushing, her starry eyes, her fucking “gentleman.” What was the point of having IT hack into her eHarmony profile if it ended up matching her with comparable men? They were supposed to make her profile such a train wreck that she was only paired with losers. “What does he do? This gentleman of yours?”

  “He’s a dentist,” she tosses out, pushing another page in my direction. “Or a tooth surgeon. Whatever that’s called.”

  “An oral surgeon?” I ask, my hand tightening on my pen.

  “Yes!” She snaps. “That’s it. Thanks.” Any effect that my hands had had on her has apparently disappeared. She now seems a hundred percent focused on this stupid contract and this dumb date of hers.

  “Did you like him?” I ask the question as casually as I can, my pen biting into the soft paper, my scrawl rougher than usual.

  “I think so. He’s a lot better than the other guys. And I’m pretty tired of looking.”

  “That sounds like the recipe for success. A guy who’s better than a pile of idiots, and a woman tired of looking.” I shove the final page toward her and stand. “Does love have any piece of that equation?”

  “It was our first date, Trey,” she calls out. “Give it a few more dates.”

  The next question I shouldn’t ask; it’s not any of my business, not appropriate among coworkers, and not even among friends. I stalk my way to the fridge, fighting it. Still, right before I find and crack a beer open, it comes. “When are you planning on fucking him?”

  She is standing, gathering the papers, a paperclip in hand, when the question hits. She doesn’t look at me. “That’s none of your business.”

  “I just don’t want you to rush into it. It’s only been … what? Nine months since you and Craig—”

  “Shut up.” She turns toward me, her hands reaching back to the counter and she hoists herself onto the marble as if she was fifteen. “If I wanted you to, you’d fuck me right now.” She pulls up her skirt, working it over her thighs, and spreads her knees far enough apart that I can see the pale pink of her panties, a match to the garter straps. A year ago, we’d argued over the name of its color. A year ago, I’d stared at a sample set and envisioned them on her. “So don’t lecture me about my virtue or if I’m ready. I think you just don’t want me to fuck anyone else.”

  I try to keep my eyes on her face, but it is difficult when her legs are open, her words challenging me, and I am almost in reach of her. “Don’t tempt me, Kate.”

  “Am I right, Trey?” She drags my name along her tongue and it has never sounded so sexy in its life.

  “You’re my best friend. I’m trying to watch out for you.”

  “So you don’t want to fuck me.” She lifts her chin, pulling self-consciously at her blouse, and her knees start to close.

  “Stop.” I step forward, my hands settling on her knees and pushing them apart, her body opening like a flower for me, that fucking pink silk flashing at me from between her thighs. I pull my gaze from it and back to her face. “If you want me to fuck you, Kate, just say the word. Don’t ever be confused over whether I want that. There’s not anything on Earth I want as badly as you. I’d love to know if the chemistry that we have … if it could be how I imagine it.”

  One of her hands moves, a tentative reach that runs along my right collarbone before settling on my chest. “And if it isn’t?” Her eyes dart to mine, and the fact that there’s insecurity in them breaks my heart.

  “God, I hope it isn’t. I hope it’s terrible. It would make our lives so much easier.” I smile, and her eyes warm, and holy shit—this may actually happen. I wet my lips and say the one thing that may destroy it all.

  “But I meant what I texted you, back in Vegas. It’s too risky.” I slide my hands off of her knees, my fingers memorizing the contours of her legs, the silky feel of the stockings. I step back and put my hands in my pockets before I make another mistake with them. “There’s too much—”

  “At stake,” she finishes, her knees meeting, and she pushes off of the counter and down to the floor, gripping the edge for support. “Yeah, that sounds familiar.” She bends down and pulls on one heel, and then the other. “When do you leave for New York?”

  “Tomorrow night.” I hesitate, second-guessing my next move. “Want to come?”

  She shakes her head, reaching for her purse. This must be it, the end of her visit. I used to like the solace, the moment when I would step inside my home and hear NOTHING. Now, it only feels lonely.

  She pauses next to me, on her way to the door. “We good?”

  “Always.” I lean into her and she brushes her lips against my cheek. “Drive safe.”

  “I will.” She squeezes my arm, and then, her heels clipping out of the kitchen, she is gone.

  “We good?” If my answer had been lingerie, it’d have been a bustier. Deceptive as hell.

  chapter 12

  Her

  I turn on the shower and unclip the garter belt, rolling the expensive hosiery down my legs and stepping out of my damp panties, leaving the pile of lingerie on the floor of my bathroom, the rest of my undressing done with less ceremony. I consider the suit, then toss both the jacket and the skirt in the direction of my bed. He’s right, it is ugly. And I’ll never be able to wear that skirt again without thinking of his pen pushing up the fabric, his hands so close behind it. Naked, I open up the door and step into the shower, closing my eyes as the hot water hits my skin.

  I don’t know what to do with him. I’d almost begged him. I’d almost said I didn’t care about commitments and risks and had him take me to his bedroom right there.

  Put your hands on the counter. Flat. Palms down. God, the places my mind had run. I could feel the heat of him when he had moved behind me, the brush of him again
st me. If he had knelt, had lifted my skirt and bared my ass, run his fingers along the Brazilian cut of my underwear, if he had dragged my panties to the side … I slide my hand down, to my swollen clit, and softly brush my fingers over it. Had he realized how wet I was? How badly I wanted him? Even now, I throb at the thought of it, the huskiness in his voice, the dominant way his hand had closed around my thigh.

  “I’m going to slide my hand under here.” I rub a slow circle around my clit and reach for the handheld shower attachment. I flip the control and water pulsates from the head, a small groan falling from my lips as I press it between my legs, the hot water strumming across my clit, my legs tightening in response. I brace a hand against the tile wall, my eyes closing as I remember the look in his eyes when his hands had slid under my skirt, when his fingers had explored the edges of my panties, when his hand had cupped me, his gentle fingers pushing the damp fabric inside of me. All he had had to do was move the piece of fabric aside. One tiny movement. One curve of his digits, and I would have gripped his shoulders and sobbed out his name, promised him anything, and begged him for everything. Replace those fingers with his cock, and I would have sold him my soul.

  “Open your legs, Kate. Uncross them.” I need him in an unnatural way. I need him to push apart my thighs and put his mouth on me. I need him to suck on my clit and tease me with his fingers; I need him to gather me against his chest and push his cock inside of me. I want to look down and see his bare cock, to watch it against my skin, the thrust of it, the tight clench of his abs, his hands on my hips, the burn in his eyes when he buries it fully. Just the thought of it makes my legs tremble, my hips thrust, and I grind against the shower head like a dog in heat. I bite my lip. Sometimes, with just a certain look, I can sense his arousal. That look always makes me think of his cock, thickening inside of his pants, growing stiff, the hard ridge of him pushing against the fabric. I tilt my hips forward, giving a sigh of pleasure as my legs nearly buckle, my orgasm close. I imagine him standing up from his desk, that look deepening, his hand pulling on his zipper, pulling out his cock.

  “Open your legs before I pull them apart myself.” He had said that to me. My Trey. He had given that order, and I had spread my legs for him. Had he seen my panties? Had he seen the way that they stuck to me, the way that I had trembled? I imagine him stepping forward, his head tilting, eyes searching, his fingers pulling my panties to the side, and all of me, swollen and pink and wet. He would look up, and that look, that look in his eyes—I come from the idea, the orgasm violent, my fingers sliding against the tile, my body tensing, back rounding, and it is long and hard when it blooms, a wave of pleasure that shudders through me, my cries drowned out by the water, my pleasure extended by the spray. When I finally sink back against the wall, I am numb, my emotions spent, my body limp, my head a fog of orgasmic bliss.

  It’s just fantasies. Fantasies that will have no life. Fantasies that only belong in private moments between myself and my fingers, my toys, my showerhead. Eventually, I’ll have someone new, someone who will steal my heart and take over my mind and erase all of these ridiculous thoughts.

  I reach and turn the handheld off, closing my eyes and stepping under the overhead’s hot spray.

  A month later, the woman sits quietly before me, her heels crossed at the ankles, her hands in her lap. She is a few years younger than me, and I can see it in her innocence, her nervous eyes, the tap of her dark nails against her black jeans, the fidget with her smartwatch. I look down at her resume, one fairly impressive, and that aligns well with the graphic designer job. I ask about her current employer, and she begins to speak, pausing when there is a gentle knock on my office door.

  “Good morning,” Trey’s voice fills my office, and I glance sharply at him.

  “Good morning,” I say mildly, in an attempt to mask my irritation. “I’ll be through in a few minutes.”

  He steps inside, and I stifle a groan. “Ms. Cone, this is Trey Marks, our owner. Trey, this is Chelsea Cone.”

  “We’ve met before.” He extends a hand and she rises to her feet, her cheeks flaring bright pink. I watch in interest. “It’s nice to see you again. Thank you for coming in.”

  “My pleasure.” She keeps standing and I look at Trey.

  “I’m almost done here, Trey.”

  “Of course.” He smiles at me, and there is something there, a message of some kind, but I miss it. “Could you see me when you wrap up? There’s an issue with the Brazil order, I just need you to look at it.”

  The ‘Brazil order’ is our code. Something is wrong, and I cycle through the morning’s events, the outstanding issues, all of the things that might have gone wrong. I nod. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  When he leaves, the color in her cheeks fades to normal, her return to her seat almost more of a collapse, and I eye her carefully. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just feeling lightheaded.”

  I close the binder holding her resume. She’s the strongest candidate so far, and I choose my words carefully, my mind distracted by Trey and his Brazil order. “Thank you for coming in. We’ll make a decision on this position by the end of the week.”

  She rises, and I walk her to reception, then head straight to Trey’s office.

  “What’s wrong?” I pull the door closed, thinking of our factory shipment, the pending patent on our new hook closures, the civil lawsuit against our silk manufacturer.

  “Don’t hire her.” He sits in his leather office chair, one elbow on the arm, his hand playing with the stubble on his jaw.

  It is so unexpected that it takes me a moment to catch up. “Who? Chelsea?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  His hand falls from his mouth and grips his desk, pulling his chair forward. “I have a history with her.”

  Between Vicka and Mira, I’ve seen the women Trey has histories with. They are strong, confident women, nothing like sweet, meek Chelsea. “What kind of history?” I ask carefully. “You dated?”

  “No. Just a one-time thing.” He nods toward one of his chairs. “Sit down. You’re freaking me out, looming over me like this.”

  “You had a one-night stand with her?” I laugh uncertainly. “Really? Are you sure?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a one-night stand, and yes, I’m quite sure of who I have fucked, Kate.” The emphasis he gives the word sends a dark tingle down my spine.

  “So … you don’t want me to hire her?” I have so many questions, all inappropriate for this moment.

  “I think I’ve made my opinion on interoffice fraternization clear.”

  I meet his eyes, and something thicker than tension passes between us. Yes, his position on that is clear. Crystal clear.

  I nod slowly. “Okay. I’ll find someone else.”

  “Thank you, Kate.”

  Just the way he says my name hurts.

  Her

  The restaurant is one of those places that takes farm-to-table a little too seriously, the waiter launching into an extended monologue as soon as we sit down. He delivers us each mini-plates with something from the chef designed to “awaken our palates,” something we should think of as a “delightful journey for the tongue.” I automatically glance at Trey, ready for his dirty take on the phrase, but he isn’t looking at me. The smirk is there, but it’s directed at his date—Chelsea—who blushes, her hand nervously playing with the end of her braid. I move to Stephen, who dubiously lifts the cracker and dips it into the gooey caramel-colored sauce. I look down at my own sampling, and the knot in my stomach fully forms.

  The wine is delivered, along with a second monologue about the appetizer options, one Trey fully ignores, his mouth at the blonde’s ear, his arm draped over her chair, the edge of those fingers playing with her bare shoulder. When he finally looks up, the speech is over, and the wine is poured. I reach for my glass and Trey stands, stilling my action.

  “A toast,” he says, lifting his g
lass. “It’s been three months for the two of you, correct?” He glances from Stephen to me and smiles warmly.

  “That’s correct.” Stephen extends his glass and half-rises in his seat.

  “To three months, and many more.” Trey lifts his glass, and we toast, my eyes meeting his as our glasses touch. I narrow my eyes slightly but he only smiles. “Congrats, Kate.”

  “It’s three months,” I say as sweetly as I can manage. “Not exactly toast-worthy.” We all return to our seats and I watch Chelsea cup both sides of her wine glass as if it’s a warm mug of coffee. I don’t need to ask how long they have been dating. I can tell you that with psychotic clarity. Two and a half months. Two weeks after Stephen and I became official, she showed up at the office, a Kate Spade slung over her shoulder, yoga pants and a midriff-baring tank top on. She had waved a cheery hello at me and bounced into Trey’s office, his door quickly shut, blinds drawn. Apparently Trey hadn’t wanted to hire her, yet had wanted to rekindle their past. I had stared at an inventory report and tried to think of anything other than what was happening in there. It had been the longest twenty-two minutes of my life. And that afternoon, after he’d taken a ninety-minute-lunch with her, when I had asked him about it? He had only shrugged. She’s fun, he had said. When I’d asked him if he liked her, he had cocked an eyebrow at me and questioned if we were all still in high school. Since then, I’ve kept my Chelsea questions to myself.