Love in Lingerie Page 12

  Kate, who is still with that tooth doctor. Kate, who gets flowers every other week, delivered to the damn office. Kate, who left for a weekend in Cabo and came back tan and glowing, her hair still curly from the salt air. It had been the longest weekend of my life, imagining what they were doing, imagining what he was saying to her. Chelsea had been a needed distraction that weekend. Hell, her presence is the only thing keeping me from looking like a lovesick idiot. And she understands, her breezy attitude about Kate almost annoying at times. What woman is okay with her boyfriend being in love with someone else? Maybe it is her generation, a younger attitude that accepts all circumstances. Or maybe she enjoys the expensive dinners and my cock. I turn, my back settling against the balcony rail, and watch her through the open curtains. On her hands and knees, she looks over her shoulder and laughs at something the man behind her says. Reaching forward, she looks up at the cock in front of her, her hand greedy in its grasp of it.

  Ten years ago, maybe I’d have fallen in love with her. Now, I only want out. I pull back my sleeve and look at my watch. I’ll give her another half hour of fun. Then, damn the situation, we’re leaving.

  chapter 14

  Her

  “So much for Paris in the springtime.” I flick a piece of bread into the mist and watch a pigeon pounce on it.

  “It’s an off day.” Trey sips his coffee and points down the street. “Look, the Eiffel Tower. That’s all you really need to see. Now you can go home happy.”

  “Wet and happy,” I grumble, scooting my chair closer to the table, its flimsy umbrella doing little to protect us from the rain. He chuckles and I wave my hand in the air to stop him. “Shush, I heard how it came out. Just get me somewhere warm and I’ll be less grumpy.”

  “Fine.” He stands, fishing into his pocket and pulling out some euros. Peeling off a few bills, he tucks them under the coffee cup and holds out his hand. “But we’re going to have to make a run for it.” I slip my hand in his, and he pulls me through the crowded street. My other hand pulls at the hood of my rain jacket, the downpour soaking my jeans, my flats squishing with water by the time he finds an empty alcove for us to duck into.

  “Oh my God.” I push the hood off my head and wipe underneath my bottom lashes with my fingertips. “I miss California.”

  He runs a rough hand through his hair and water splatters everywhere. “Don’t forget, you’re the one who wanted us to open a French boutique.”

  “It was a terrible idea,” I decide. “You should fire me for it.” I look out on the street. “I mean, look at these women. They aren’t going to buy two-hundred-dollar panties.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” He leans against the wall and points to a man who holds an umbrella, helping a brunette across the street. “But he is. And so will the women, once that billboard goes up.” He turns to me. “Or so you tell me.”

  The billboard is actually the side of a building, one that will host a ridiculously sexy picture of Trey, in his hottest suit, our LeCort bra hanging from the tip of his finger. It’s part of the campaign I had brainstormed the night of Trey’s mugging. This billboard was one of eight ads, all which featured Trey, domination pouring from the images. I had been right. He ordered women to buy our lingerie, and they responded in staggering numbers. Our focus groups had obsessed over it, and sales in US cities spiked everywhere we’ve run the ad. The billboard will be the first of a full French marketing campaign.

  “It doesn’t matter if they buy.” I jump in place, watching my shoes, bits of water squirting out the top of them as I land. “This entire thing was really just an excuse for a free trip to Paris. And now that I’m here, and it’s freaking bleak and dreary, I’d like to cancel it all. Let’s just forget the grand opening altogether and fly home. I’ll even give you a free grope mid-flight.”

  He makes a face, his hands tucking into his pockets. “No deal. I grope you anyway. As soon as you start drooling all over my shoulder, my hands get to working. But if you can wear a front-clasp bra, that would make my life easier. It’s a bitch to undo it from the back, especially when people are watching.”

  I smile despite the weather and the hours of work ahead of us. He catches the movement and steps closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he matches my stance, both of us looking out into the street. Even through the rain and the fog, it does have a certain ethereal beauty to it. A beauty that I never thought I would experience and yet here I am, in the most romantic city on Earth, with him. I glance over, and he looks down at me, a grin stealing over his face. “You know we’ve done it, Kate. Pulled Marks Lingerie from the ashes.”

  I nod, and for once, I don’t have words. Tomorrow, we will open the doors to a French store, a sister to the Los Angeles boutique we opened six months ago. This year, we will clear two million in profits. Next year, we should triple that, launch a men’s line and five more boutiques. It’s incredible what we’ve done, all in two-and-a-half years. As fucked up as our attraction occasionally gets, at least we have this. I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life.

  I nod again, and he wraps his arm around me, his chin resting on my head. “Thank you, Kate.”

  I smile. “You’re welcome.”

  “I love Paris!” I scream the words into the night, the wind carrying them down to the street, a few tourists cheering in response. An arm hooks around my waist, and I giggle as Trey hauls me off the balcony, his hands firm as he turns me in place and then points to the suite’s couch.

  “Sit, my drunk beauty.”

  “Yessir,” I mock, plopping down on the red velvet, some of the champagne sloshing out of my flute. I take a small sip, watching as he feeds another log into the fireplace, bright orange embers curling through the air, some floating into the room. I close my eyes and stretch my bare feet toward the fire.

  “Warm enough?” he asks, and the couch beside me dips from his weight. I roll my head to the side, smiling at the look of him, his bow tie loosened, tux jacket gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone. Rumpled. My rumpled and sexy man.

  “I’m perfect.” I hold my champagne glass out to him. “Finish this please.”

  He takes it from me and finishes off a hundred dollars’ worth of champagne in one thick gulp.

  “Is it weird that I didn’t bring Stephen with me?”

  He looks down into the empty champagne flute, then sets it on the side table, slouching down on the couch until his position matches mine. “No. It was a work trip.”

  “Is it weird that I didn’t want to bring him?”

  He turns his head to the side, his ear against the couch pillow. “A little.”

  “Did you think about bringing Chelsea?” It’s been eight months, and I still struggle to say her name.

  “It wouldn’t have made much sense to. We broke up last week.”

  “What?” I readjust, turning slightly to see him better. “Why?” They broke up? My drunk self can’t handle the news; it doesn’t know how to react, and whether to cheer or cry. I’ve spent months trying to adjust to the impending possibility of their long-term relationship, months trying to see him as a friend and never ever anything else.

  “You want the long or short answer?”

  “Both.”

  “She wasn’t you.”

  Three simple words, yet they hit like sledgehammers. I look into his eyes and wonder how much of the emotion welling in me is from the champagne, how much is from Paris, and how much is from him. I have a boyfriend. I need to remember that. Stephen is a good and stable man. I just can’t, right this second, remember what makes him better than Trey. I swallow. “Is that the long or short answer?”

  “The short one.” He sighs. “The long one will have to wait for another night.”

  “I’m with Stephen.”

  “I didn’t tell you that to change anything, Kate.” He reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear. “I was just answering your question. I wanted to try dating, I thought Chelsea would be a good fit.” H
e shrugs. “She wasn’t. It is as simple as that.”

  Would I be a good fit? It’s a question I won’t ask, a door I can’t open—not when I’m with Stephen.

  It’s as simple as that. But nothing is ever simple, not when it involves the two of us.

  Him

  She falls asleep on the couch, her bare feet stretched out on the rug, her beaded dress bunched and twisted. I carry her to the bed, and she wakes enough to undress, my hand careful as I help her with the zipper, my eyes looking away as she peels the evening gown away, the barest of peeks revealing her choices for the evening—our Haviar shelf bra and matching eyelet panties, both pale lavender. I pull back the duvet and she rolls underneath it.

  “Goodnight, Kate.” I pull the blanket up and softly kiss her forehead. Moving toward the second bedroom, I stop in the doorway, looking back at her, dark hair spread over the pillowcase, arm limp over the top of the duvet.

  Sometimes, I love her so much it hurts.

  chapter 15

  Her

  “Please focus," I laugh, leaning back in the chair and rubbing my eyes. "We're going to be here all night if you keep getting distracted."

  "Just try on the white one." He pulls a bathing suit out of the box and holds it up with one hand, the other hand wrapping around his beer, the bottle lifted to his lips as he grins at me. "Then we can go back to your comparison charts.”

  The box before him is an order from Fredrick’s of Hollywood, and contains their entire summer lineup. We have ridiculed their products while finishing off an entire platter of tacos and … I eye the empty bottles littering the conference table ... two six-packs of Mexican beer. He shakes the flimsy white fabric at me and I snatch it from him, holding the ridiculous ensemble up by the straps. Its first downfall is the color—the type of cheap white that will turn dingy by the second wash. The second downfall—and the sadder of the two—the style. It has a poufy neckline, one that matches the little skirt that hugs the hips of the suit. I turn the suit around and am dismayed to see a tail of sorts, the skirt continuing in a manner the fashion designer had probably pitched as “seductive.” It’s a disaster. I toss it at his face and he tilts his head away, the swimsuit catching on his beer and hanging there for a moment.

  He laughs and pulls it off. "Come on, Kate. We've been working too hard. I need some comic relief."

  I snort, and lean back in the seat, kicking my bare feet up on the closest empty chair. "Nope."

  "Try it on, and I’ll let you have full control over the November catalog.”

  That bit of negotiation lifts my head. "Seriously?"

  "Swear to God." He sets down his beer and leans forward, reaching out and sliding the garment toward me. "Come on. Show a drunk man how the competition looks."

  I stand. "Don't test me. I'll do it."

  He lifts his eyebrows in a challenge, and that's all I need, snatching the bathing suit off the table and walking toward the bathroom. "The November catalog. Full control?"

  "You gotta sell it,” he calls out. “Make me want to buy that thing!"

  I don't bother looking in the mirror. I can feel the pooching of the material on my hips. My breasts are firmly supported by its stiff underwire, and the neckline is one that my Sunday school teacher would have approved of. I make sure that the tail of it isn't stuck somewhere it shouldn't be, then step out into the hall and head toward the conference room. Trey’s dress shoes are up on the table and he turns at my approach, the chair swiveling under his weight, his eyebrows lifting as he sets down a fresh beer. "Well?"

  I set my hands on my hips. "What do you think? Super sexy?"

  He stands. "Super sexy." He nods to the window. "Go check yourself out."

  At night, the sky outside dark, I can easily see myself, the way the fabric bloats around my curves in the most unattractive way possible—as if the designer had set out with the sole focus of making a woman look horrible. "Oh God." I cup a hand over my mouth and giggle, the combination of beer and exhaustion making the image hilarious.

  I watch in the reflection as he comes closer, stopping behind me, his finger trailing up the side of my arm, his head dropping as he examines the shoulder of the suit. "Is this polyester?"

  "It's a blend, I think. The tag's there, on the back." I reach back for it, and he bats away my hand, his fingers confidently dipping underneath the edge of it, his neck tilting back as he reads the tag. "You're right. Twenty lycra, twenty cotton. Though I'd bet..." He turns me toward him and looks down at the suit, his forehead wrinkling, deep in thought. When his gaze flips up to me, there is a twinkle in it. "Do you trust me?"

  "Hardly," I snort out a laugh. "But yeah. Go ahead."

  I jump when his hands settle on my hips, his body bending forward, his eyes on mine, and it is almost as if he is going to kiss me. I go to step back, and his fingers tighten. "Easy, Kate." he whispers. "Close your eyes. This is purely for research, I swear."

  I shouldn't close my eyes, but I do. It’s one of those senseless responses to a man I would trust with my life. I inhale when I feel heat against my right nipple, and I open my eyes and look down to see his mouth on the outside of the suit, his lips against the cheap fabric, his eyes closed. He suckles the fabric, and my eyelids drop from the sheer pleasure of it. Has a man ever kissed that part of me like this? His grip on my waist gets tighter, and I exhale as his mouth lifts off me. "What are you—?” The question falls away when he lowers his mouth to the other side, and I am unable to look away as his tongue swirls around the bead of my nipple, hard against the thin fabric. He covers the entire area with his mouth, and I almost groan with the sensation.

  We can't do this. Trey’s mouth on me, the bite of his fingers into my hips, my mind going crazy—pulled between lust and possibilities—he lifts away from me, and I struggle to open my eyes.

  "Look at your reflection." There is a rough catch in his voice that is unfamiliar, and I look up into his face, unsure if I’ve ever heard it before. The heat in his eyes ... that I recognize, a look I always pretend to ignore, the connection between us that I always run from with a flippant comment, phone call, or eye roll. Now, I don’t run. I stand, my heart wild in my chest, my nipples crying for more attention, and meet his eyes.

  "Kate, look." His hands move to my shoulders, and he turns me to the window, his chest against my back, our eyes meeting in the glass reflection. When his gaze drops, so does mine, my cheeks heating when I see the dark stain of my nipples, clear as day through the wet fabric. "If I was at a party," he whispers, “and you stepped out of the pool wearing this..." His hands slide down the outside of my arms. "You'd ruin every man there for life." He tugs on the back of the suit’s skirt, and the jerk of fabric pulls across my most sensitive places. "Even with a tail."

  "Trey.” I can't think of a distraction, can't think of a way to stop this. His eyes flick up, catching mine in the reflection.

  “Is the crotch lined? I’m curious if it—”

  “It’s lined,” I interrupt him, my cheeks heating, the thought of him continuing the test in between my legs … my knees almost buckle at the thought. “I should change.” I want to grip the neck of his suit, just to keep myself upright. I want to rub the tips of my breasts against his suit, just to feel the friction. I need the friction. I almost lean into him, my hand reaching out, stopping myself just in time. I push gently on his suit and force myself to step back.

  His eyes are on fire. I can feel the heat of his stare, it eats at my resolve and this is the closest we have ever been to breaking. “Be right back,” I whisper.

  His hand wraps around my wrist, tying me to him. “Don’t stop for that pretty boy, Kate. He doesn’t—”

  “Don’t.” I flick my gaze up to his and all but beg him with my eyes. “You’re drunk.”

  He says nothing, his eyes on me, as steady as the day he showed me his father’s grave, as strong as when he gave me control of his company. Between our eyes, we fight and lose fifty wars. Then his lids
fall over those dark eyes, and he carefully lets go of my wrist. “You’re right. I am drunk.” He turns away from me, ambling by the table and snagging his keys off the polished wood. “See you tomorrow, Kate,” he calls, an exaggerated slur in his words. “I’m out for the night.”

  Him

  I don’t take the elevator all the way down. I stop on the sixth floor, moving quietly through the dark cubicles and into my office, my hand quick on the blinds, then the door’s lock, my back hitting the door, hands fumbling at my belt, my zipper, my underwear.

  Her hand flat against the window, cheek against the cool glass. I kneel behind her, my suited knees against the wood floor—

  no.

  I pull out my cock, and I widen my stance, clenching my thighs, my hand wrapping around my cock and slowly tugging down its length. It’s half-hard already, and stiffens further under my touch, a soft groan tumbling out of my mouth as I picture pulling her from that window and scooping her up, knocking over beer bottles and lingerie and laying her out on the table. Would she fight? Protest? No. Not as soon as I lower my mouth back to that white bathing suit, my mouth teasing her through the fabric, lifting up her legs and wrapping them around my shoulders, her thighs against my ears, the smell and taste of her so close, right there. Fuck the lining of the suit—I’d get her so wet that I’d see it all, her all but naked on that table, the sight of her, her back arching against the hard surface, her hands reaching for me … I quicken my hand, squeezing the base of my dick as I jerk the shaft, my breath quickening, and I’m going to come like a fucking teenager for her.

  I wouldn’t be able to stop, I would pull her to the edge of that table and yank that wet suit to the side, exposing the beautiful look of her. She would be the first woman I would ever take without a condom, and that initial push, the thick slide of my cock inside of her, her name off my lips—