The Suit

by Kathryn Nolan

  “I’m not going to apologize. It’s past one in the morning and you’ve hijacked my entire evening. And I’m not even going to make any money off of you because I actually have integrity.”

  You roll your eyes. “Who needs integrity when a drunk Brit just wants you to tattoo his ass?” Another small smile, and every time it happens you feel like you’ve just won a gold medal at the Olympics. No, two gold medals. And a silver.

  “What was your first tattoo?” You ask, feeling totally out of your element. Not a single member of your family or extended family has a tattoo. Or anything beyond an ear piercing.

  “Can’t show you,” she says. “It’s in a…private place.”

  “It’s on your ass, isn’t it,” You deadpan, and she coughs into her hand to hide her laughter.

  “I’ll never tell,” she says, and now it feels like she’s flirting with you. Which seems impossible.

  “Did Emily have tattoos?” She asks, and the fury comes back.

  “Emily? The woman who fucked my mate and just told me four hours ago?” You say. “Not that I’m bitter. And no, not at all. Wouldn’t have been proper.”

  Roxy swallows and you watch her throat work. “Have you talked to your…your friend yet? The one she fucked?”

  You shake your head. “I was too busy with the drinks and the tattoo planning. And I probably won’t, to be perfectly honest.”

  “Why not? You don’t want to confront him? He fucked your girlfriend,” Roxy says, and you notice again the sheer number of bloody weapons tattooed on her body. Knives and guns and something that looks like a rocket launcher.

  “Maybe I should have you confront him, love,” You grin. “Scare the knickers right off him wouldn’t you?” Another haughty tilt of her chin.

  “I’ve been known to…hold my own, yes,” she says, sipping from her mug. Those dark eyes meet yours but don’t flinch when you hold her gaze. “But couldn’t you commit some act of Wall-Street-evil upon him?”

  “First, I don’t actually work for Wall Street.” You pause. “I work for Merrill Lynch.”

  “Oh god,” she says.

  “And I’m not sure what kind of evil you think I could perpetuate? Close out his savings account? Change his name on his debit card to Colin McShriveledDick?” She laughs softly, the sound like a glass of whiskey on a cold, winter night. “Don’t let the suit and the polished shoes fool you. I’m not that much of a corporate asshole.”

  “Mmm,” she says. “Sounds like you avoid conflict.”

  “I bloody well do,” you say. “Have you met me?”

  “I mean, not really,” she says. “It’s now been…an hour. Not even. So I know literally nothing about you. Still.”

  “Well, it’s not the way my family handles things. And if you must know, yes, they are like that family from Downton Abbey or whatever example of Brits you have here in the States.”

  “Did you grow up under a staircase like in Harry Potter?” She asks with a straight-face.

  “Cheeky,” you say. “And no, I grew up in a very nice flat in a very nice part of London. And we didn’t just go around, sharing our feelings or fighting like Americans do left and right. Or at least, that’s what I’ve learned from binge-watching Real Housewives of Orange County.” That gets you an honest-to-god laugh.

  “Tattoo me, Roxy,” you plead.

  “No,” she says. “It’s not what you really want and you’ll only regret it. Plus, I’m still not convinced of your sobriety.”

  “Shall I walk a straight line for you?”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head and moving behind the large desk. Shuffling things, putting things away. Cleaning up, about to send you out. And suddenly, there’s nothing more in the world you want than her hands on you. Even if they’re permanently inking art onto your body that you don’t really want.

  “I was thinking a realistic heart, you know the kind? But a giant dagger stabbing through it. Maybe a quote underneath like Fuck You Emily.”

  Roxy bites her lip, flipping off the coffee machine. “First, if that’s really what you want, it’ll take me a couple of hours to draw it out. An hour, at least, to actually tattoo it. And unlike some of us corporate assholes in the room, I actually worked all day today and am exhausted.” She walks over, flashing a sweet smile that you know is fake. “If you really want it, you’ll still want it tomorrow.”

  “How else do I get over her?” you ask, hating the sudden honesty in your voice. The vulnerability. You were trying to keep things light and fun, but the thought of going out into the cold, alone, is too much.

  “Edward,” she says, before settling back down. Her knee touches yours, but you don’t move away. Neither does she. “This can’t possibly be your first fucking break-up, right?” Her eyebrow arches.

  “No,” you admit. “First serious one though. First time I’ve been cheated on. First time…first time I was blind-sided. Control, you see. That’s what I grew up with and every relationship I’ve ever had has been tightly controlled. My break-ups have been polite. This was…”

  “About one hundred different types of fucked-up,” she finishes, and you nod, grateful.

  “How did you get over when you were cheated on? How did you get up from rock bottom?” you ask.

  Roxy looks away, and your eyes track the graceful tilt of her neck. You feel a sudden desire to reach forward and lick her throat, from collarbone to just under her ear. Is that the most sensitive spot on her body? Would it make her scream or moan? Or is there somewhere else, somewhere deeper, where she’d let you lick her?

  “Do you want to know the truth?” She asks, taking off her jacket and laying it behind her. She’s wearing some alluring combination of lace and metal. Bullets and satin.

  “Please. All I’m working with right now is this horrible cocktail of anger and regret. Surely this can’t…surely it can’t be like this forever?” You wonder, knowing that you’re sliding, face-first, into the sad, post-tipsy part of the evening.

  “No,” Roxy promises, full lips pursed around the word. “It won’t be. You’re too…I mean, you’ll move on. Some bland, boring woman will sweep into your life and change it for good. For the better. And Emily will become a distant memory.”

  “Why does she have to be bland?” You ask. “Roxy, I feel like you’ve judged me too harshly.” You lay a palm on your chest and give her pleading eyes until her lips quirk up.

  “A bland, rich banker who you can have bland, boring sex with for the rest of your life,” she continues and you want to tell her ‘Please no.’ Want to tear off your restrictive suit and tie and race off into the night. Preferably with her.

  “Well,” you say, pressing your knee just a bit against hers. She doesn’t move. “Until I meet this bland, rich, banking woman, how am I moving on? You still haven’t told me what you did.”

  Roxy looks both ways, as if ensuring you’re totally alone. Which you are.

  “First of all, I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” she starts. “And secondly…fucking.”

  Your hand tightens on the mug. “Fucking?”

  Roxy shrugs nonchalantly, her magenta hair cascading down. “Sex therapy. I just took home every attractive, single man I met and had my way with him.” She grins slowly, like a black widow about to consume her victim.

  “I’ve not done that before,” you say, and wonder what other secrets you’ll be admitting to tonight.

  “Have a one-night stand?” She asks, eyebrow arched. You shake your head.

  “Highly recommended for getting over cheating exes,” she says, and it might just be your imagination but she is definitely pressing her knee against yours now. A steady pressure.

  “Emily would hate that,” you finally say, and it’s true. “She was very scandalized by people who took home perfect strangers. She thought sex should be a civilized act. And only after you’ve confirmed your partner’s pedigree.”

  Roxy spits a word into her coffee that sounds an awful lot like ‘hypocrite’.
r />   You like that she’s on your side.

  “I’ll have to disagree with your Emily,” she says.

  “Not my Emily. Not anymore,” you say. “So I guess I should, um, go out and…pick up a stranger?” Your coffee is one-sip-away from being done.

  “My advice,” she says with a shrug. “And if you still want that tattoo? Come by tomorrow, take off those pants, and I’ll permanently ink the words ‘Fuck you Emily’ right above your ass.”

  You laugh heartily, and before you can stop yourself, your palm is on her knee, thumb landing on an inch of skin, bared by a tear. Roxy stills and your heart slams in your throat. You pull back quickly.

  “Sorry, um,” you stumble. “Still a little drunk I guess.” Which is a lie. You’ve never been more brilliantly clear-headed.

  “It’s okay,” Roxy says. “Although I will knife you if you do it again,” she says.

  “Got a thing for knives, love?”

  “I do,” she says, and you don’t miss the glimmer in her eyes. Your brain snags on a fantasy: a barely-clothed Roxy pressing a knife to your throat, one hand wrapped around your cock, her lips bruising yours.

  And where in the bloody hell did that fantasy come from?

  ROXY

  You’ve got a thing for knives and all kinds of sharp objects. You’ve got a thing for pain and pressure, edging and control.

  Not that you’re going to tell Edward that—he’d run so fast out of your shop he’d leave an Edward-shaped shadow in his wake. Plus, he still doesn’t look the type. Too…quaint.

  “Do you need advice for a one-night stand?” you ask, and still can’t believe you’d just told a perfect stranger you enjoyed ‘sex therapy’. Not that you’re ashamed—not at all—more that you’re battling an intense urge to smash your mug to the floor, straddle Edward’s hips, and fuck his sexy English brains out. You have no idea why. And the sex talk isn’t helping.

  Yet here you are—pushing.

  “I guess I’m not quite sure what to say to a woman I’m interested in a one-night stand with,” Edward says thoughtfully. He swipes his hand through his hair and a lock of it hangs over his forehead. “Is there something you’ve found to be successful? Do I just say, ‘Hello. I find you quite alluring. Would you appreciate an intimate evening with me?’”

  You snort, arch an eyebrow. “Not unless you want them to fall asleep halfway through that sentence, Dilbert.”

  “Ouch,” he says with a fake wince. “So what do you usually say?”

  “I don’t do much talking usually,” you say. “I know what I look for in casual sex, so I go out specifically to look for it. Once I’ve chosen my target—”

  “—victim—” Edward interrupts and you bare your teeth at him.

  “Lucky winner,” you finish and his smile is illicit. “Once I’ve chosen the lucky winner, I make sure of a few things.”

  “Those are?”

  You hold out your hand, ticking on your fingers. “Make sure they’re not in a relationship. Make sure they understand consent. Make sure they’re clean and have been recently tested. Make sure they like the same things I like.”

  Edward nods like he’s taking notes. “What are the things you like? If I can be so bold.”

  You squirm a little, his knee pressing against yours. The scrape of his thumb along your inner thigh had unleashed a fury of sensation, almost making you dizzy. But then he’d apologized politely and let you go—instead of grasping your tights and tearing them asunder.

  “So now the polite English gentleman is bold?” You ask.

  “Very,” he says. “Very bold, Roxy.”

  Another squirm. “I like my sex to be…intense. I like pain. Dominance and submission. Toys.” Whips, you want to say. Chains.

  “Which are you?” Edward asks, and there is no mistaking the raw need in his voice. “Dominant? Or submissive?”

  “Both,” you say with confidence and you watch his knuckles whiten. “Did you play bedroom games with Emily?”

  “Never. She liked polite and muted and always in the dark.”

  “And is that what you like?” You watch him, expecting fluster. Or blushing. Not his eyes, locked on yours like you’re the only thing matters in this entire fucking universe.

  Like he’s moments away from snapping his fingers and barking an order.

  “I don’t…think so, no,” he finally answers. “I’m quite embarrassed to admit I have very little sexual experience. Thus, why even though I’m a grown man and hold a business degree and every day manage billions of dollars for corporations I…well, I don’t know how to ask a strange woman to come home with me.” He says ‘strange woman’ the way he says your name, and your heart is all a-flutter.

  You want to tell it to calm down, but you’ve never really been able to do that.

  “Hit her with the accent. Chicks love that,” you say and he laughs.

  “How about a suit and tie? Is that something ‘chicks dig’?” He asks with exaggerated air quotes and a hilariously awful American accent.

  You smirk.

  “Some chicks enjoy ties. And all the wonderfully improper things you can do with them.”

  He swallows. “I see.” He looks like he wants to say more but instead tosses his head. “And you’re definitely going to show me that first tattoo, love?”

  “No. But I was seventeen years old. A real wild child. Climbing out of windows, tearing my jeans on wire fences. Making out with boys. I was always an artsy, dark little thing.”

  “A Goth girl?”

  You purse your lips. “Maybe.” A pause. “Okay, I was Goth all the way. Which hasn’t changed too much, has it?” You say, staring down at your all-black outfit.

  “I think you look lovely,” Edward says softly. “Like some kind of dark angel.”

  “Something like that,” you finally manage to say. “But I had some terrible boyfriend who had a friend who was an amazing tattoo artist. We lied about my age, I told him what I wanted, and the rest is history.”

  “It hurt?” Edward asks.

  “Like a motherfucker,” you say, and his laughter is like a sharp ray of light after drizzling rain. “But I also liked it.”

  “What?”

  “The pain,” you say, remembering how turned on you’d been, begging your boyfriend to fuck you in the car afterward. The way you’d pressed, ever-so-gently, on the skin that throbbed above your ink. Getting off on it.

  There was something about Edward that was causing the same desire—to press and push and feel for why you were so attracted to him. It could be that you were getting the distinct impression his dapper, well-tailored suit covered up a man who was desperate to let loose his darker passions.

  And that you wanted that refined accent muttering filthy phrases in your ear.

  “Roxy?” Edward asks, because your hand is suddenly moving of its own volition, up his surprisingly muscled thigh. It clenches beneath your fingers.

  “Yes?” You say, dazed. Suddenly you can’t remember the last time a man has turned you on so much—and he’s barely even touched you. Just talked and teased and made you laugh.

  Your fingers creep up his thigh, skip his cock. A low, masculine sound escapes Edward’s lips.

  You like it.

  “What are you doing, love?”

  “I don’t know,” you say, still dazed. “But you should ask me.” Your fingers track up the fine stitching of his white shirt. The silk of his tie.

  “Ask you what?” You’ve leaned far over, barely six inches from his face. And up close he is oh-so-handsome. More handsome than you were expecting. It feels like you’ve been punched in your gut, arousal hollowing you out.

  “I mean, I’m a strange woman, aren’t I?” You ask, slowly wrapping his tie around your fingers. You wrap and you wrap and you tug Edward’s face closer and closer to yours.

  “Ah,” he finally says, attempting to kiss you, but you stop him. His grin is devilish. “I find you quite alluring, Roxy. Would you appreciate an intimate evening
with me?”

  You grin back, tightening your hold on his tie but keeping him an inch away. The air between your mouths is charged with hot electricity. A storm about to erupt.

  “Are you in a relationship?” You ask.

  “You know I’m not.”

  “Do you understand consent?” You ask, the most important question.

  His eyes are clear. “I would never hurt you, Roxy. You can trust me. And yes, I understand.”

  You believe him.

  “When was the last time you were tested?” You ask, pulling him an inch closer. Your lips dance but don’t touch.

  “A month ago. I was clean. And Emily and I still used condoms.”

  You sigh. The final question.

  “Do you like the same things that I like?” You wait, and Edward seems to gather some kind of courage, brow furrowed. But then he leans forward, running the tip of his nose along the side of your neck. You shiver. And then he closes his teeth around the tender skin of your throat and bites you. So hard you almost climax.

  “I think I do, love,” he whispers against your ear, after letting you go. “But it would be my…my first time. Like this. The way that you like it.” Your eyes flutter closed in happiness.

  A virgin.

  So to speak.

  Except Edward is all coiled muscle and low growls next to you, and something tells you he’s not going to need any instruction.

  “After tonight Edward,” you say, yanking his tie so hard he hisses. “You’re not going to remember Emily’s name. You’re not even going to remember your own goddamn name.”

  In response he reaches forward—nothing tentative in his movements—and grips the back of your head. Pulls the small hairs at the base of your neck between his fingers. Traps you there.

  “Roxy darling,” he says, brushing his lips against yours. “After tonight? I’ll be the only name you remember.”

  ROXY

  You don’t let Edward kiss you. Not yet. You’d made some bold promises about blowing his mind, and really the only thing you want to do right now is strip. With a wicked grin you shove Edward back, letting go of his tie. His eyes flare in challenge.