Sex And Other Shiny Objects

by Blakely, Lauren

  “Can you man the front for me for a few? I need to make a call?”

  “I can woman the front,” she says with a saucy wink.

  “Good catch. My bad. Work your magic.”

  She makes abra cadabra hands as I head to my Lilliputian office in the back to make the requisite arrangements with my mother for session number two.

  She answers on the first ring, and her warm, confident voice is always good to hear. “Hello, sweetheart. What are you up to?”

  “Oh, you know. Just causing trouble.”

  She laughs. “As if. You were never my troublemaker.”

  “Nor was Jay. Admit it. You raised two good kids despite your best efforts.” “True, I did try to corrupt you. But you were so stubborn, insisting on actually listening to me and whatnot.” She heaves an exaggerated sigh, and I laugh, enjoying that I don’t need to brace myself to make my out-of-left-field request. She’s the model of a supportive mom, even when I ask for the unusual.

  “Speaking of corruption, I need to borrow your apartment tomorrow. Please tell me you and Dad still have your Thursday-night Scrabble contest at the Bridgertons’?”

  “You act like we’re so predictable.”

  “And the verdict is?”

  She huffs indignantly. “Fine, we’re set in our ways. But why do you need our place?” I hear her snapping her fingers. “Oh! Is it for your blog? I read your newest post this morning. All I can say is ooh la la.”

  I cringe, the fire flaming my cheeks. I’d nearly forgotten my mother was a devotee of The Lingerie Devotee. While my love of undies isn’t a secret, my blog veered in a much more personal direction last night—one that’s not exactly fodder for the family.

  Yet I need to own it. This project involves putting myself out there, so I square my shoulders. “Yes, I’m conducting a research experiment,” I say, then I dive into the rest of the details—how I’m helping Amy, and that the unnamed man is my best guy friend.

  There’s a pause, the silence unnerving, till my mom fills it, her pitch rising. “The guy in the blog, the handsome guy—that’s Tristan?”

  She says his name like she’s never heard of him, even though she knows him well. She’s met him many times.

  “Yes, Tristan.”

  “He said yes to being your partner in crime?”

  “Well, obviously. You read my post.”

  “Interesting.” She says it the way a detective on a TV show would comment on a twist in a case. As if the word can be rolled out on a red carpet.

  “Why is it interesting?”

  “It’s interesting that he’s the one you enlisted.”

  Her logic is a bit circular, so I press further. “Who else was I supposed to ask? He’s a friend. A good, trustworthy friend.”

  “True. Then be sure to have fun tomorrow with . . . your friend,” she says, a wink in her voice.

  A wink that winds me up. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mom?”

  She chuckles like I’m oh so silly. “Sweetheart. I’ve seen how you and Tristan are together. You’re great friends, but you also have this . . . what’s the word . . .?”

  “Yes, what is the word?” I’m desperate to know.

  She takes another beat, then answers crisply, “Call it a vibe.”

  A familiar doorbell rings in her home. “I have to take off. There’s a package I need to pick up downstairs. You know the code to get in. And feel free to have dinner when you’re done.” The sound of the fridge opening reaches my ears. “Let’s see. Looks like we have plenty of dishes ready for you. Edamame and roasted mushrooms, veggie lasagna, and some polenta with red peppers. Just don’t eat the quinoa. I need it for a cranberry salad I’m making for Friday night.”

  “I’ll do my best to resist the quinoa,” I say, making a barfing sound. “I mean, it’ll be tough, Mom. But I’ll try.”

  “Quinoa is irresistible, so do try to show some self-control,” she says, not taking the bait. “Hands on the man, hands off the quinoa. Gotta go.”

  She hangs up.

  That’s how the call ends? With advice to keep my paws off her quinoa?

  Staring at the screen, I shake my head, trying to shake off her comments, but one word in particular echoes.

  And it’s not quinoa.

  It’s vibe.

  What sort of vibe do Tristan and I have? I wasn’t even aware we had one.

  I tap out a note to Amy.

  Peyton: Do I have a vibe with Tristan?

  My finger hovers over the send button. But I don’t hit it. Instead, I delete the text, letter by letter.

  I don’t know that I’m ready to hear someone else’s opinion when I haven’t formed my own yet, so I ask myself that question the rest of the afternoon as I take care of customers, into Thursday, and then later that night as I select my underthings.

  Do we give off a sense of something? An energy?

  I reflect back on the way it felt to tear off his clothes, to discover his strength, to find that flash of heat in his eyes.

  Goosebumps rise on my arms, and my breath catches, giving me my answer.

  As I slide into a lace plunge teddy, I think my mother might be right.

  If there’s a vibe, I’m betting it’s the boomerang effect of that kiss from ten years ago.

  Because Tuesday night, I wanted that again.

  And I wanted to tear his shirt off for more than knowledge.

  For more than the blog.

  I didn’t simply want to undress him for research. I wanted to undress him for me.

  As I find a black dress in my closet, I pause, running my hand over the soft fabric, contemplating, wondering.

  What am I supposed to do with this desire?

  How am I supposed to manage this new bout of wanting?

  I don’t know what to make of these feelings. Except this much I know for a fact—it would be a mistake to act on them.

  Long ago, we had our chance. Now, we have our friendship, and it’s back on solid ground again.

  He means too much to me. He matters too much. I won’t let anything topple us.

  Not even the shiver of desire that shoots down my spine as I head to my parents’ Fifth Avenue apartment.

  After all, he can’t practice whisking off my little black dress while we walk up the staircase at my place.

  I don’t have a staircase.

  My parents do, though, and it’s carpeted.

  That’s great because I suspect I’m going to fall on my ass.

  15

  Peyton

  The first time we try the scene, my shoe catches the carpet, and I nearly twist my ankle.

  The second time, Tristan laughs so hard while trying to tug up my skirt from three steps away that we both fall into a fit of laughter.

  The third time most definitely isn’t a charm. It’s a tumble as he lunges for me and I shriek while we slide down the steps.

  On our asses.

  But I don’t mind falling with him. It doesn’t feel like a failure. It feels like a spectacular fail with my best friend. On the bottom step, I collect myself and hold out my hands, flummoxed. “How the hell do they pull it off in the books?”

  “Don’t you know? In romance novels, everyone is suave and coordinated.”

  “Are you saying I’m not coordinated?” I ask indignantly as I untangle my legs from his feet.

  “You? No. Never.”

  I give him the gentle shove on his shoulder that he deserves. “You’re not exactly Fred Astaire.”

  He grins from his post next to me on the bottom step. “Fine. Let’s call a spade a spade. I’m not Fred and you’re not Ginger.” He smacks his forehead. “Ginger! You are a ginger.”

  I finger a strand of my red hair. “You’re just realizing this now? I’ve known you for ten years. Might want to work on your powers of observation, Fred.”

  He rolls his eyes. “No, I’m figuring out the perfect nickname for you.” He stands, offers me his hand, and pulls me up. “You’re Gingersnap.”

>   There’s a note of pride in his tone, like he’s delighted he devised this term of endearment. And I don’t mind Gingersnap. Maybe it’s the way he says it—with a touch of affection.

  “Fine. I’ll be Gingersnap to you. . . Fred.”

  “Then let’s do it one more time . . . Gingersnap.” His voice is a little rougher, a bit sexier, and it makes my chest tingle.

  Exactly what I don’t need.

  I shake it off, trying to stay loose, to stay in the friend zone.

  But maybe I’m too loose, because when he’s ready to make the waist-grab move, I wiggle away.

  Unintentionally.

  Which means my elbow bonks the wall.

  “Ouch!” I rub my elbow.

  “You okay?” There’s genuine concern in his voice.

  “I’m not sure I’ll live,” I say with a pout as the joint smarts.

  He reaches for my arm, inspecting it then softly rubbing. “What do you want me to say at your funeral?”

  He’s deadpan serious, and I nearly crack up. But I rein in my laughter, affecting a high-brow tone. “Please say she died trying to escape a most dangerous staircase undressing. Also, let my death not be in vain.” I lift my finger, an orator making a point. “Let it serve as a warning to all those intrepid readers tempted to reenact staircase disrobing.”

  “You’ve given your life to a good cause,” he says with a solemn nod. “I will carry your warning to the masses.”

  “You do that.”

  We make our way back down the stairs, where I try to regroup. We need to fully test this scene before I can report on it in the blog and in Amy’s guide. “Okay, let me review the choreography so I know I have it straight,” I say, so I don’t mess up again. I gesture to the staircase. “I head up the stairs. I glance behind me after three steps. You give me a sexy smolder. I sashay my hips. You reach for my waist, spin me around.”

  “After that, I lift your skirt,” he says. “You take two more steps up. I slide the skirt up your body. Another step. Over your head. You do this all with heels on, and boom. Top step. Birthday suit,” he says, dusting one hand against the other.

  “I’m not wearing my birthday suit,” I point out, but the thought has me flustered. Or is it flushed? Is that a flush spreading over my chest at the prospect of nudity? But flushes and blushes are precisely what I want to avoid in this scenario. “I’m definitely not wearing it,” I say, to drive the point home.

  “Actually, you are. We always wear our birthday suits.”

  I sigh dramatically. “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m wearing my birthday suit,” he says, gesturing to his frame, and for a few deliriously erotic seconds, I imagine him naked.

  Strong muscles, carved abs, that sprinkling of chest hair that’s the perfect amount of manliness.

  My mouth waters.

  My stomach flips.

  And I reprimand the hell out of my brain, the indecent wench.

  Friends don’t picture friends in the buff.

  “Let’s try it one more time,” I say with a crisp nod and a cool tone. “We’ll do it by the book.”

  He clears his throat, his tone shifting. “Peyton, I have another idea.”

  I blink. “You do?”

  “I do.” He pauses, scrubbing a hand across his chin. “Do you trust me?”

  The question is rhetorical. “Of course I do.”

  He shakes his head, like that’s the wrong reply. “I know you trust me. But can you trust me right now? To take the lead?” His voice is gentle but somehow commanding at the same time. It’s soothing, and the question says he knows me, but he also needs me to let go. To give in to him.

  Can I?

  Will I stumble if I do?

  His eyes lock with mine, and the intensity in his gaze is reassuring, like the security he gave me at his restaurant the other night when he said, I’ve got you.

  I give the only answer I can. “I trust you.”

  “Good. Then let’s do it.”

  “If you say so, Fred.”

  His lips curve in a crooked grin. “I do say so, Gingersnap.”

  He hits play on “Wicked Game” on his phone and sets it on the table at the bottom of the stairs, and the smooth, sultry strains of Chris Isaak float through the air.

  The music pulses, low and sexy, like it’s playing in my body, beating inside me. The effect is heady. It sets the mood for the scene.

  A scene we’re simply acting.

  That’s all this is. Acting and reenacting.

  He arches a brow, glances at the stairs, then says in a rumbling, sexy voice, “Been thinking about you all day. Need to get you upstairs and get this off you.”

  He has? Oh, dear God. That’s not helping me think friendly thoughts.

  Wait.

  That’s what the hero says in the book.

  He memorized it. He learned his lines.

  I’m a little relieved he didn’t mean it, and a little disappointed too.

  But I zoom in on the job. Fortunately, I know my lines too. “Then come and get me,” I say, taking that first step in my Louboutins.

  The second. And the third.

  I glance back. He’s right behind me. I wiggle my hips, feeling daring, seductive.

  This is when the hero is supposed to tug up the skirt.

  But Tristan doesn’t lift his hands. Instead, he gestures faintly to the steps ahead of me.

  Keep going, they say.

  I take another step, unsure of how this scene will play out when he’s not quite following the choreography.

  “Need you all the way naked,” he says, gruff and wildly sexy, reciting the hero’s next lines.

  “So you can have your way with me,” I say, like the heroine does. I take another step, then one more.

  He’s right behind me, and I don’t know what’s coming next. He’s supposed to yank my skirt up.

  But he hasn’t touched it.

  Instead, I feel a faint brush of strong fingers on my waist.

  I shudder. The sensation is almost too much for me to make it to the top of the stairs.

  But he nods, urging me on, his hands on me till I hit the landing.

  This isn’t how the scene unfolds in the book. I should be naked by now. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be doing when he joins me at the top. I feel every sensation in my body, keenly aware of him behind me and of the thread of possibility that winds around me. What will happen next? What will Tristan do?

  I look up at him, my breath in my chest, my heart in my throat, his eyes on me.

  “It’s safer here,” he whispers.

  And I understand completely what he did.

  He abandoned the moves to get me up the stairs safely.

  My heart thumps harder.

  “And this is where I take your dress off like he does in the book.” His words send a shock wave trembling through me.

  I know what to do. I know what to say. I don’t recite the heroine’s lines. I use my own.

  “Take it off,” I say, feeling daring.

  And daring feels spectacular.

  Like taking a chance. Like putting myself out there.

  His hands dart out to the hem of my little black dress. With a rough swallow, he slides it up. He’s not hesitant. He doesn’t delay. He lifts it to my waist, only pausing when the bottom of my black teddy appears. His gaze lingers for a moment, then he’s back to the job.

  The whisking off.

  He yanks up the dress to my breasts.

  The trembles I felt before? They’re nothing compared to the full-body shudder I experience as I record this moment.

  His hands. The set of his jaw. The fullness of his lips.

  One more swoosh of fabric and the dress goes over my head. His fingers brush my arms, my shoulders, my hair. The faint little touches set me aflame as he lets the dress fall to the floor.

  I’m hotter than a sidewalk in summertime as I stand before him wearing only a lace plunge teddy and black heels.

&nbs
p; The question he asked at the bottom of the steps reverberates in my mind.

  Do I trust him?

  He must know the answer. He must know how much.

  Because I’m here, nearly naked, and he made sure I didn’t fall.

  But sometimes you need to say it twice.

  “I trust you.” It feels like jumping off a cliff.

  “Same,” he says, like it’s hard to speak even that one word. My gaze slides down his body. His fists are clenched by his sides, and it’s as if I’ve walked in on him in a private act, so I return my focus to his face.

  But that feels even more personal because he doesn’t stop staring at me, nor do I want him to.

  I know that look. It’s how I devoured him the other night.

  With hungry eyes.

  He’s drinking me in, eating me up, and I want everything about this moment to stretch long into the night.

  I want to be gazed at this way forever—with adoration, with lust, and with something I’ve never seen before.

  Something I don’t know how to name.

  The air is thick with desire, wrapped up in the fading notes of one of the sexiest songs I’ve ever heard and its final warning not to fall.

  He breaks the trance. “Nice teddy.” His voice is a mere rasp.

  “Thanks,” I manage to say.

  For a long, delirious moment, the hero’s next words hover between us.

  Now let me see how sexy you look on my bed, wearing nothing but that naughty grin.

  I can feel them pulsing in my body.

  But he doesn’t say them. We’ve already gone off-script. We’re writing new lines, trying new scenes.

  And I don’t know what happens next.

  Tristan scrubs a hand over his stubbled jaw, swallows, and glances away as if it pains him. He bends, grabs the dress, and hands it to me. “Want to go get something to eat? I’m starving.”

  No, I want to shout. I don’t want to eat. I want to finish the scene. I want you to find me on your bed, wearing nothing but a naughty grin.

  And yet, I can’t want that.

  My disappointment is chased with relief that he suggested food, an exit.

  I need to get out of this zone with him. This lawless land where I’m entertaining wildly dangerous thoughts about my best guy friend.