Sex And Other Shiny Objects

by Blakely, Lauren

  I laugh, once more feeling like we’re friends who help each other, even with absurd requests.

  She undoes the first one, moves a little faster with the second, then yanks at the shirt.

  Ripping one side down the middle.

  We burst out laughing.

  The buttons are all intact, but the shirt has been torn asunder, hanging open.

  “Holy shit, Peyton. You did it.” I stare at the carnage of the Duane Reade clothes. She’s staring too.

  Not at my shirt.

  At my chest.

  Then at my abs.

  She looks at my face, her breath stuttering like she’s trying to collect herself. Then her eyes roam down. “You. Work. Out.”

  Every macho instinct in me tells me to preen, to show off muscles that sweat and time at the gym have carved.

  But I resist those urges. “Every now and then.”

  “Shut up. These are religious abs. These require daily practice.”

  I laugh at her assessment. “Yes, my abs are quite devoted.”

  She laughs too, then smacks me with her palm. Almost like she’s trying to cop a feel. But her hand darts away so quickly that I decide it’s just Peyton’s usual fun-and-games routine.

  Her eyes twinkle with unbridled enthusiasm. “Want to do it again? Since you brought spare shirts. We should definitely do it for research. We need to test the hypothesis more than once,” she says, like she just got off a roller coaster and wants to ride it again.

  So do I.

  All night long.

  “Absolutely.” No wonder those heroes in romance novels like this so much. It’s just fucking hot when a woman wants to get you naked.

  It’s hot even if it’s for research.

  I remove the torn shirt and head to the kitchen, where I left my bag.

  She’s quiet, and the silence is sexy. It says she’s watching me. She’s looking at me.

  When I turn around, my hunch is confirmed.

  Her eyes focus on my chest as I slide my arms into another shirt and button it up. She doesn’t take her gaze off me. The entire time, she watches, and it’s heady. It makes my pulse roar.

  I close the distance between us until we’re a foot apart. The air is charged, crackling. I can’t stop thinking about what happens next. After the heroine rips off the hero’s shirt. After she slides her hands along his abs, up to his pecs, around his neck.

  When she presses her sweet, lush body to his.

  My brain skyrockets ahead, picturing crushing her lips to mine, sliding my hands under her skirt, walking her to the wall.

  Having her and pleasing her.

  I force myself to stay rooted to the project. This desire is borne out of the moment. It’s a normal reaction to a beautiful woman taking off my clothes. Nothing more.

  I’m a researcher—that’s all.

  The renewed focus helps.

  Like a diligent scientist, she runs the experiment again, unbuttoning the first button, then ripping at the rest of the shirt with all her strength.

  One button comes loose, but it doesn’t fall. It hangs by a thread.

  She stomps her foot. “I want the buttons to fly off. That’s how it happens in the books, and it seems so sexy.”

  Ah, hell. I need to find a way to deliver for her. “I have one more shirt to try,” I say, but I’m not thinking of the third one in the cheap pack. Time to lean on the pricey shirt. “Want to see how an expensive shirt holds up?”

  “I do.” Her voice is breathy, eager.

  Is this turning her on too? If it is, join the club.

  Grabbing the Barneys one from the bag, I slide my arms into the sleeves. She stares at me again, her eyes traveling over my biceps, my chest, my abs.

  Like she’s seeing me for the first time.

  Like she’s drinking in the view.

  She’s mesmerized, and her stare heats my blood, driving me on. I stalk over to her, park my hands on my waist, and wait.

  Her lips part, and my memory serves up the delicious reminder of how intoxicating she tastes. How sweet she kisses. How softly she sighs.

  I clench my fists, staving off my desire.

  She lifts her hands, but she doesn’t undo the top two buttons. She plays with them. Her fingertips fiddle with the first one, toying with it, and with me. With each stroke of her fingers on the buttons, she’s also running her fingers over my body, across inches of my chest.

  Even through my shirt, she’s turning me on.

  Like that’s a surprise.

  “I like these buttons,” she says, as if hypnotized.

  “Yeah,” I say, since I can’t really form any other words, let alone thoughts.

  She’s transfixed, fondling the fucking buttons, and it’s driving me insane with lust. If she keeps this up, I might die from it.

  “They’re so shiny, and they feel so good,” she whispers, like she’s in a dream. “Who knew buttons felt like this?”

  Her voice is like honey, and I want to taste her lips again. Taste her skin. Kiss her everywhere.

  That’s the problem.

  This experiment needs to end before I hit indecent levels on the arousal meter.

  “Take it off,” I tell her, because I can’t handle this much longer.

  Slowly, seductively, she undoes the first button. A flash of heat crosses her blue eyes. Maybe it’s desire.

  Did I imagine it?

  Is she feeling it too?

  Her hands move quickly but strategically, and she undoes another button, then one more, and when she tugs this time, there’s a plink on the hardwood.

  She flinches in delighted surprise.

  Another button.

  This one goes ping on her floor.

  And then the rest are flying across her apartment.

  Ping, ping, ping.

  She’s laughing and grinning and staring at the button carnage. “Holy smokes. It worked. It really worked.”

  I’ve never seen her this excited. “Damn, woman. You did it,” I say, taking in the trail of shiny objects on the floor of her place.

  She gazes at them, then at me. “I guess it was the fancy shirt?”

  I cock my head. “Was it?”

  “Actually, no.” She shakes her head, like she’s processing what just went down. “For that last one, I think I felt like the heroine in the novel, and that’s what did it.”

  Oh God.

  Oh hell.

  Oh, fuck me.

  I want to dissect that six ways to Sunday. I want to read all sorts of meanings into her remark.

  No, I want to read one particular meaning into it. But I have to protect myself. This is merely acting.

  None of this is real.

  After she snaps a picture of the buttons, I put on my armor, pick up the carnage, and pull on a gray T-shirt. I turn the evening in another direction, because it’s the only way I can survive this project.

  By not reading into it. “Want to have that popcorn?”

  “I do,” she says with a smile, then she raises the lights and grabs the beer she bought me. We head to the couch and break open the snack bag.

  “Ladies first,” I say, and as she dips her hand into the bag, it feels like a postcoital cigarette.

  I grab a handful of popcorn and chew. “I am indeed a salty forever.”

  “I know you so well,” she says, and that’s the real postcoital afterglow. Because the popcorn isn’t only popcorn. It’s evidence that she knows me.

  That she wanted me to have what I like.

  That she wanted me to enjoy this night.

  As I regard her on the couch, legs tucked under her, munching on snacks, grinning happily, I hate that I’m aware once again of how different she is from every other woman I’ve ever been attracted to.

  How warm and open and honest. How giving and caring and loving.

  How wonderfully, fantastically different she is.

  But learning that anew is exactly what my heart doesn’t need. If I stay here, I’ll let the popcorn and
beer trick me, like the cologne did years ago.

  And popcorn is just a snack. Beer is only a drink.

  None of these gifts are signs.

  Life doesn’t give you signs.

  Life gives you potholes, and you have to navigate around them without crashing.

  After a thirsty sip of the brew and a few more handfuls of kernels, I scoot away from the pothole of desire. “I have to take off.”

  Her expression morphs into sadness. “You do?”

  “Barrett will be home soon,” I say, fashioning a plausible excuse.

  She frowns. “Too bad. I was going to see if you wanted to watch The Walking Dead or something,” she says, making me wish once more that I could convince myself to stay.

  “Rain check?” I take the empty bottle to the kitchen, setting it in the recycling bin.

  “Of course. Go see Barrett,” she says, shooing me to the door.

  “Let me know when the next session is.”

  “How’s Thursday?”

  Grabbing my phone, I make a show of looking at the calendar, tapping my chin, and furrowing my brow. “Let’s see. If I move this meeting with a supplier, then if I change my Zumba class, and maybe I can skip flower arranging—”

  She clears her throat dramatically.

  “Ah yes. I can fit you in at seven fifteen on Thursday. Seems I have an opening then,” I say, hoping a little humor will sweep away the lust cloud chasing me.

  “Thanks for finding a window,” she says, laughing. “Now leave before I kick you out.”

  “You’d never kick me out.”

  “I know,” she says softly, so softly.

  And I know it’s true. I grab the bag of clothes, and I go.

  * * *

  Barrett’s not home when I return. He’s still at play practice, and he won’t be back for another hour.

  I knew that.

  This little white lie is for the best.

  Trouble is, I can’t wait for Thursday. Especially when she texts me and tells me how much she’s looking forward to the test she wants to run that night.

  So am I.

  God help me, so am I.

  12

  Peyton

  The Lingerie Devotee: Do Try This at Home

  Blog entry

  Lavender is for possibilities.

  It’s what you wear when you’re an explorer, traveling across new boundaries, entering a new land.

  Lavender’s not brash. It’s subtle, encouraging you to try new things.

  And try I did.

  Last night, I conducted a tasty new experiment.

  After all, who hasn’t wondered if life could play out like the pages of a romance novel?

  The ones where the good stuff goes down.

  Where shirts come off and buttons fly.

  And I am here to tell you, they can indeed soar.

  Powered by lace and lavender, I put on my best bold self, walked across the living room, and tore at a handsome man’s shirt.

  Okay, moment of truth.

  The first time, nothing happened.

  The second instance? I ripped the cheap shirt down the middle, leaving two sad shards.

  But the third time?

  Oh yes, it was a charm.

  The buttons flew.

  One, two, three, and more.

  All of them landing on the hardwood floor.

  And the trick I learned is wanting it.

  Do you want to tear his (or her) clothes off? Then mean it. Believe it. Go for it. But do set the stage. Put on some music. Have a drink. Get in the mood.

  Wear something that brings you pleasure.

  Let yourself feel like the heroine in your own story.

  Own it.

  And then . . . do it.

  Whether the buttons fly or fall or stay in place, what matters is what you want.

  Last night, I wanted to tear this guy’s shirt off like I’ve never wanted to disrobe a man before.

  It worked so well, and here’s the evidence. A photo I shot of the buttons on the floor. And here’s what I wore—my ensemble for my shirt-shredding mission.

  When he was gone, I luxuriated in this sexy set a little bit longer, and in the prospect of the nights ahead of me.

  Xoxo

  The Lingerie Devotee

  Find me at You Look Pretty Today on Madison Avenue

  13

  Tristan

  Barrett: Dude. She called you “handsome.”

  Tristan: What are you talking about?

  Barrett: Don’t act like you don’t read her blog.

  Tristan: And you do read her blog???

  Barrett: Duh. Obviously. Rachel and I are reading it now. We’re laughing our asses off. Can you wear that ripped shirt to homecoming? Handsome. :)

  Tristan: Shouldn’t you be in school?

  Barrett: It’s lunchtime . . . Handsome. :)

  Tristan: Go eat lunch, then.

  Barrett: Go man up. Handsome.

  Tristan: Goodbye, Barrett. Good luck on your history test.

  Barrett: How did you know I have a history test?

  Tristan: It’s my job to know what’s going on with you. Now finish your sushi, drink your LaCroix, and get your butt to fifth-period history to take your test on United States foreign policy in the Middle East.

  Barrett: You’re obviously a spy if you know I’m drinking LaCroix and eating sushi.

  Tristan: Either that or I actually pay attention to your likes and dislikes.

  Barrett: I’m going with spy. Handsome. :)

  14

  Peyton

  “That’ll be two hundred twenty-one dollars,” I say to the petite blonde with a soft Southern accent, who’s gobbling up three camis, two baby-doll nighties, and a black slip.

  She plunks down her credit card, then flashes a pink lip-glossed grin. “And I’ll report back tomorrow. Because I have plans for these darlings tonight.”

  Arching a tell-me-more brow, I wrap the purchases in tissue paper as Marley scans her card. “Plans with lingerie are the best kind,” I say.

  Leaning in closer, she offers a whispered confession. “Tonight, I’m thinking of wearing the baby doll, making margaritas, playing D’Angelo, and ripping off my man’s clothes.”

  “And I suspect your report card will include a big S for tonight—S for satisfied.” I slide the shopping bag to her, and she takes it, swinging it back and forth.

  “I can’t wait. Loved your post. Thanks for the tips, and thanks for the suggestions on these sexy little numbers.” She tips her forehead to the bag of items I helped her select. “Now, I’m off to pick up a few shirts for tearing off.”

  All I can say to that is: “You go, girl.”

  After she leaves, Marley grabs my arm, clutching my wrist. “She’s the second person today to say something about your blog.”

  “And it’s barely past noon,” I add, a frisson of excitement darting through me.

  But I’m not going to get ahead of myself. Yes, the blog generated more comments today. Yes, two customers have mentioned it. But one resurrected blog is not enough to combat a big box store with a discount sale. I eye the banner in Harriet’s window across the block.

  “See? Harriet can’t mess with us. We always take care of our ladies,” Marley says, full of fire and pep, and I love it.

  “Exactly. We have a ways to go, but we’ll keep it up.” I’m a glass-half-full person, though, so I’m choosing to be happy that a handful of customers are devouring my posts and buying some goodies.

  Including, evidently, my yoga teacher’s beau. Because he strolls in next.

  “Namaste,” I say playfully, hoping humor will defuse any remaining bits of awkward from the other day.

  “Namaste to you too,” he says with a grin. Then taps his chest. “Michael.”

  “Peyton. Glad you could make it in,” I say and maybe the awkwardness was only on me. Yes, it was definitely on me.

  “I read your blog this morning with Nadia. We are officially lingerie devotees
now. Well, she wears the lingerie. I just admire the view.”

  “That definitely makes you both devotees,” I say, and for a fleeting second I’m reminded that I was going to ask this guy whose name I didn’t even know till a moment ago to be my scene partner. I’m so glad he turned out to be involved. “Are you looking for anything in particular for Nadia?”

  “Something indulgent. She loves satin and lace and I love to spoil her.”

  “That’s our favorite kind of men,” Marley chimes in.

  “Trouble is—I don’t have a clue what to get her. No idea where to start.”

  “Then you are doubly our favorite kind of guy,” she adds.

  “Marley, can you help him choose a few potential items?” I ask.

  “Would love to. We have some fantastic new items in both satin and lace.”

  “Take me to them,” he says, eagerly.

  When they’re done, he brings a huge haul of goodies to the register. Whoa. I’m definitely glad he’s a customer.

  “Glad you found some lovely items. And half off like I promised,” I chime in.

  He shakes his head. “You support my love’s business at her yoga studio. I will support you. No discounts. Just good, honest patronage. It’s that simple.”

  “I’m touched,” I say, my heart warming. Maybe Tristan was right—the personal connection is what matters.

  And I’m a little richer too when he leaves, a couple bags of goodies in tow.

  It’s a reminder that I’m on the right path with the blog project.

  I need to walk that path tomorrow night too, but the experiment I have in mind requires a different setting than my place.