Now I can almost see the top of her stocking. I'm pretty sure it's not just those faux-tights that are made to look like it, I think they're the real deal. And I don't know why that makes me want to groan out loud.
"Yes," she says, following my line of sight. With one finger, she hikes her skirt up just enough to show where the garter attaches. "They're thigh-highs."
"Christ." I let my head fall back on the seat.
"She never dressed like that when we were together," Lissy intones, mocking my inner monologue. "Am I right?"
I shoot her a look. "Well, you didn't."
"Well, you never asked." She grins, sliding a little bit closer, just enough so she can reach out and grab the end of one of my laces. She can't bend at the waist much, so this gesture puts her breasts approximately two inches from my face. I freeze as she tugs on the end of the thin leather strip, gently. "Also, neither did you."
God damn. The girl wanted me in leather and lace-up flies, I would have done it in a heartbeat. I had no idea. How was I supposed to know?
"That's not fair," I grumble, trying to squirm away from her before my temporarily-dormant dick realizes what's going on. "I didn't know you liked it. Every straight man with eyes wants to see his woman in a corset and thigh-highs."
"Oh boy," she says, taking mercy on me and putting a little more distance between us. "I hope you're not about to trot out that old 'women aren't visual' stereotype. Come hang out in some of the online readers' groups I'm in. You'll be in for a world of wonders, my friend."
"I'm not saying women aren't visual, I'm just saying...I mean, is that a thing? Do all women like lace-up leather pants? Nobody talks about it." Too late, I realize I've stumbled into a trap.
"Exactly." She grins. "You know how much time women spend talking about what they can wear to please men? Why don't you try tipping the scales a little bit?"
"Fine, tell me all the secrets, then." I fold my arms across my chest. "I'll make sure to add them to the agenda of the next Bro's Meeting."
"Um, off the top of my head? Well-tailored suits. Button fly jeans. Dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Sharp uniforms. Boots. Cowboy boots. Cowboy hats, if you're into that sort of thing."
My eyes widen a little. "Seriously? This is all common knowledge?"
She shrugs. "I mean, pretty much. Opinions vary, of course. I once knew a guy who told me that his favorite look on a woman was a bikini and sneakers. There's no accounting for taste."
"A bikini and anything is a good option," I inform her, glancing at her chest again. God damn it.
"Yeah, well." She smiles, without it reaching her eyes. "Not really for me."
"Could be," I point out.
But she just shakes her head.
***
Lissy
Me in a bikini? Seriously? I'd get laughed off the beach. Oh well, his vote of confidence is charming, I guess. I'm still kicking myself for not coming up with a scathing one-liner when I noticed that he got hard when he was lacing me up, but the whole thing just threw me off. At the tail end of our relationship, the bedroom situation had become so tepid I was pretty sure he just didn't want me anymore - if he ever had. He certainly never treated me like those book boyfriends do. Then again, that's fiction.
But when I realized I actually still had the power to turn him on, I was caught in some weird mixture of embarrassment, awe, and the desire to grab it and kiss him.
So, you see my dilemma.
Walking into the ballroom, I'm hit with the distinct, smoky smell of leather. I'm arm-in-arm with Dean, glancing around the room for a familiar face. It doesn't take me long to spot Adrian Risinger and Meg, and it's immediately obvious from their body language that the wager is long over.
Smiling to myself, I disconnect from Dean and wander towards the buffet table. Meg spots me on the way, and waves me over.
"Lana! I didn't know you were going to be here." She's absolutely radiant in an outfit that I can only describe as a classy version of 'sexy secretary.' "How are you?"
"Oh, you know," I reply, because I can't bring myself to say anything else. "So, who won?"
Meg grins. "In the interest of maintaining the peace, we've agreed to call it a draw."
"So you did, then." I raise my glass. "Congratulations."
"Thank you." She sips her champagne. "It was damn close, though."
Adrian appears out of nowhere. He's going for a more subtle look with a charcoal-black suit and leather driving gloves. "Stop talking about our sex life," he says. "Hi, Lana."
"Never!" Meg declares, hooking her arm with his. "It's too thrilling to keep private. Isn't that the whole point of your books?"
"Excuse me," says Adrian, smiling in my general direction. "I need to go have a discussion with my secretary."
"I'm not your - oh." He tugs her by the arm as he heads for one of the doors, and she turns to wave at me, eyes sparkling. "Nice to see you again, Lana."
Dean keeps reappearing and disappearing, getting pulled into conversations with pretty much every woman who crosses his path. It takes us forty-five minutes to get to a table and sit down with a few bites to eat, because I feel like I can't leave him alone with them. I mean, who knows what could happen?
"You really think I could wear a bikini?" I blurt out.
He stares at me like a deer caught in the headlights. "Of course," he says. "Is this about the salad thing? Because I only meant -"
"Relax. I'm just..." I rotate the stem of my champagne glass. "I'm starting to wonder if I should stop waiting to magically get confident someday, and just go ahead and start faking it until I make it."
"Definitely fake it," says Dean. "You've had plenty of practice."
I roll my eyes. "You realize you just burned yourself, right?"
"I do," he says. "Confident people can afford to do that, because we act like everything was intentional. That's all you have to do. It's just like being onstage. When you flub a line, just keep going. Nobody notices, nobody remembers."
He might have a point, but I can't be like him. And I have to keep reminding myself that I'm taking advice from a cheater.
When Dean excuses himself, I immediately pull out my phone and open the texting app. I can't help myself.
I'm bored.
M: That doesn't look like a picture of panties to me.
I'm in public. At a party. I'm just bored, that's all. Feel free to ignore me.
M: You're not bored, you're annoyed. Go on, crawl up on my lap and tell Daddy all about it.
You're a fucking creep.
M: And yet here we are.
Damien told me I'd look good in a bikini.
M: Oh my God, I'm so sorry.
Seriously. I'm not bikini material. It's like he doesn't get it. Why do men never understand why we're insecure? Why do they always take it personally when we don't dress sexy "for them?" It's got nothing to do with them.
M: Darling, men are stupid. We think everything is about us.
I get that, but what's the solution?
M: Put on a damn bikini.
I roll my eyes.
So he doesn't have to compromise? It's all about me just getting over myself?
M: What are you wearing?
There's a slight pause.
M: I'm not trying to start anything. You must be wearing something that sparked this conversation, right?
Corset. Skirt. Thigh-highs.
M: I bet you look delectable.
No matter how sarcastic and obnoxious, he never fails to make me smile.
Obviously, I do. But I can't dress like this all the time.
M: But you could do it more often. For him. For yourself. Didn't I see you post that "how to get a bikini body: step one, get a bikini, step two, put it on your body" thing? Don't talk the talk if you're not going to walk the walk.
It's not that easy.
M: Nothing is ever easy. You wanted a solution, there it is. That's the wonderful thing about relationships: your actual personality mi
ght be a crooked Jenga pile of neuroses and dysfunction, but you don't get to act that way anymore. You don't get to keep living your own life. If you try to self-destruct, it'll take both of you down. So put on a fucking bikini and give him a thrill. When he wants to leave the lights on during sex, don't hide. It's a fucking compliment. Act like it.
You should do a blog post about that.
M: I plan on it. Another thing: if you do get that bikini, I want a picture.
Never in a million years, Sir.
M: The next time you want my advice, I'm going to remember that.
"Important correspondence?"
I almost jump out of my skin. Dean's standing behind me. I just pray he didn't notice anything on my screen, because I really do not need that in my life right now. Trying to act casual, I lock my screen and tuck my phone away. "Just checking the time," I tell him, as he walks around and takes the chair across from me. "Did you get lost in there?"
"Got caught up in a conversation," he says, glancing at the corner of the room he must've just emerged from. "I didn't expect to be this popular."
"It's the pants," I tell him. "Has to be the pants. I mean, it's obviously not your personality."
"That lady over there thought I was very charming, I'll have you know," he informs me, jerking his head in the direction of a middle-aged woman in a black dress and studded collar, talking animatedly to someone who looks like she wants badly to escape the conversation.
"I'm sure she did. She looks like she's about five martinis deep. She would find a Cenobite charming."
Dean chuckles. "See, now, I get that reference. I bet you never thought I'd be into horror movies, did you?"
"I admit I didn't." It was one of those points of conflict in our relationship - one that you never talk about, because there's no reason to, but I ended up missing almost everything I wanted to see in theaters and began to resent him for it, without ever mentioning why.
"This is fun, though," Dean says. "Is there anything else coming up soon?"
"Nothing that calls for leather pants," I tell him with a sympathetic smile.
He shakes his head. "Damn it."
CHAPTER EIGHT
For You
I'm still a little tipsy when the car service drops us off at my apartment. Thankfully, Dean is there to help me up the stairs in my damn heels.
"You look beautiful tonight," he says, glancing at me. A smile plays at his lips. "Maybe I should stay in a hotel."
"What does that mean?" I'm fumbling with my keys, and it's not because of the champagne in my system.
"I don't know if I can be trusted." His hand rests on the small of my back. "It was fun, pretending you belonged to me."
"Who says I'm the submissive?" I grin at him as I push the door open. For some reason, I'm not shrugging off his hand, but when I start walking forward, he lets me go.
"Everything about you says you're the submissive," he tells me. "That's a compliment, by the way."
"Thank you?" I toss my coat on the sofa and pull off my shoes. "Ugh. Finally."
"Shame," he says, eyes glittering as he looks at me. "But you shouldn't keep torturing yourself on my account."
"Please don't say 'that's my job.'" I meet his eyes, carefully, trying to figure out if he's being even slightly serious.
"I wasn't going to," he says, taking a step closer. "Unless of course..."
I laugh nervously. "What's gotten into you?"
And that's it. The mood changes. With a sudden shrug, Dean flops down on the sofa. "Nothing. Just messing around. Tonight was fun; I thought I'd try and extend it a little bit."
"Yeah," I admit, sitting down an appropriate distance from him. "I guess it's been a while since we had fun together, huh?"
"A very long time." His hands are resting in his lap and I can't stop staring at his fingers, the way they interlock. I miss the feeling of them brushing against my skin, even just casually.
I don't really want to talk about this, but I have a feeling it's going to happen anyway.
"You know," he says, "I had tickets for Les Mis the week after we broke up. I was going to surprise you."
I swallow, hard. "No, you never mentioned that."
A long silence stretches between us. So many things have changed since then - or maybe they haven't. I can still remember the acute pain of watching Dean slowly withdraw from me, his face going blank whenever he talked about it. About her. There were brief moments where he seemed almost remorseful, but mostly I didn't recognize the man I saw that day. The one who was always so kind and accommodating - the one who once said he'd do anything to make me happy.
Anything.
Somehow, in the fanciful delusion of first love, I let myself believe it. I should have known it wasn't true. It's never true. And in his case, it was "anything except giving up my piece on the side."
Maybe he cheated and maybe he didn't. These days, I don't know anymore. I could see someone looking at my relationship with Jack and misinterpreting it the same way. But I'd never hide it from someone. I'd never lie. I'd never let someone I loved slip away, just because I couldn't find a way to say that I was sorry and mean it.
It's hard to describe, if you've never seen it. I've now lived through it twice, and I can assure you there is nothing worse than looking into your lover's eyes and seeing nothing there. Knowing they have slammed a door, or maybe it was never open in the first place. Maybe that reflection of you, the one you used to see there - maybe it was just a trick of the light.
Almost as if he can read my mind, Dean starts to speak again.
"You changed, that day," he says, slowly. "I never would've guessed you were capable of hating me."
I stare at him, my throat tightening. "I didn't hate you."
It's not until now, this exact moment, that I realize how true it is. In the moment I first understood his betrayal, I split in two. A part of me had to hate him, just to survive. It was the mask I showed him that day when he came home, but I didn't realize it at the time. For months afterwards, I constantly wavered between the two identities, one cold and detached, the other wounded. Reeling. And still very much in love.
I thought the wounded half had died, but now I realize she is still very much alive. Mewling for attention, begging for the man she loves, incapable of understanding that he's the one who hurt her.
I don't have the energy to hate him anymore. If anything, I hate her.
She's the one who leans forward and touches his arm, who closes the distance between us. She's the one who only sees a man that she still wants, still needs, and kisses him.
There is a moment where he registers surprise, and I think he might actually pull away. But he doesn't.
***
Dean
She kisses me.
I don't know what it was, but something I did, something I said, melted the ice around her heart. She's willing to forget for a minute that she wishes me dead, and just feel.
I should put a stop to it. This is a really, really bad idea. Things are messy and complicated enough as it is. But she makes this little sound, a muffled whimper, and it brings something roaring to life inside of me.
Fuck yeah, I can give her what she wants. I may not be a book boyfriend, but I know what makes her hot. My hand slides around the back of her neck, holding her head in place, firmly. Taking control of the kiss. My mouth devouring hers. She goes rigid for a second, and then suddenly becomes pliant.
Oh, yes. There's my girl.
My mind is racing and bouncing all over the place, thinking back to all the times we were in bed together, and it seemed like she'd freeze up. The memories are fragmented, but they come back. Every time, I'm almost positive, it's because I was asking her what she liked, what she wanted. Softly and kindly and sweetly, the way you're supposed to do with someone you care about. I remember the intense feeling of frustration when she'd just blush and shake her head, her favorite answer always a murmured: "I dunno."
Now, I get it. She's not embarrassed about se
x, she's just a submissive, through and through. She didn't know how to ask to be dominated. I mean, it's a hell of a contradiction. I can't really blame her, although a little part of me wonders how different things could have been between us.
My heart beats wildly in my chest, and needless to say, my dick could probably cut glass. I'm thinking of all the possibilities. Everything she probably wanted me to do, all the desires hidden behind that bashful I dunno.
I can be that man. I know my way around her body, where to kiss and touch, although I'll be the first to admit I stopped putting the knowledge to good use at some point. I got complacent, I guess. We both withdrew into ourselves. I'm still selfish, but now I realize that doesn't have to be a bad thing. I very selfishly want to see her fall to pieces. I know I can do it. I want to prove I'm not still the guy who fell into the habit of seven minutes of missionary every two weeks, only to roll over and fall asleep. I don't think I could be that guy again.
Because, you know, there's sex, and then there's sex. Most men don't struggle to get theirs, so the journey of erotic exploration is mostly left to the frustrated and unsatisfied women who'd like to really enjoy themselves, just this once. It's a stereotype, I guess, but it's true. Men are wired to ejaculate. The species can't continue if we don't. As long as that happens, nothing else really matters to our lizard brains. And so millions of years of evolution have left us with a generation of two-pump chumps who may or may not even enjoy the sex they're having, but hey, at least they're fulfilling their biological imperative.
The Absolutely True Story of Us Page 6