Love in Lingerie
Page 19
His features are as advertised, a classic profile set off by straight, perfect teeth and an adorably crooked nose.
A blue sweater, the fabric snug around a manly build, his height tall enough that I can wear heels and still be shorter.
I rise, and extend a hand. “Hi. You must be Stephen.” We shake hands, and it is a good handshake, firm but not businesslike, his hands soft and warm, everything about him reassuringly conservative. “Please, sit down.”
He pulls out the opposite seat and settles into it, and there is a moment of awkward silence, one where I sip my coffee and he straightens his glasses, and I can’t, for the life of me, think of a single thing to say. Our eyes meet, he smiles, and I laugh despite myself.
“This is my fifth blind date,” he admits. “You’d think I would have learned something aside from my name by now.”
“My eighth.” I smile. “You look like you recently bathed, so you don’t really have to say anything. You’re already ahead of the rest.” It’s a lie, and he knows it, but he leans forward and conversation begins to flow.
“So you work in retail?” He tucks his hands into his pockets as we walk, his head down, ear cocked to me.
“Sort of. I work for an undergarments company. We supply to retail shops and some high-end chains.”
“Undergarments. Like underwear, hosiery?”
I nod, pulling back my hair into a low ponytail. “Yes. Less hosiery and more of the delicate items. Bras, panties, garters, babydolls. The sexier stuff. Our lines are fairly provocative.”
Trey would have made a sly comment, worked a compliment in, but Stephen only nods, his face a mask of concentration. “And what do you do for the company?”
“I model.”
The joke falls flat, and he only nods, as if I am serious, as if there is any chance of my frame on a cover. “I’m joking,” I hurry. “I’m the Creative Director; I’m responsible for the overall vision and the execution of it.” I feel the burst of pride that comes whenever I say my title.
“That’s nice.” We take the path into the park, a canopy of trees providing a break from the sun. His arm brushes mine, a reminder of where I am and who I am with. Not Trey, who is accustomed to my long stretches of silence, but this man, who probably thinks I’m odd. I am trying to think of something to say when he speaks. “How long have you been there?”
I relax a bit. “A year and a half.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“I do,” I say honestly. “Trey is very good to work for. We get along well.”
“That’s nice.”
I ask him what he does, and learn that he is an oral surgeon. A fancy dentist, as he says. He travels two days a week, has a rescued dog, and a mother in Chula Vista. We both love sushi and hate Star Wars. We are both Words With Friends enthusiasts, and—unless I am misreading the look in his eye—we both want to see each other again.
We end our walk at the parking lot. Ahead of us, my bright red Mercedes convertible sits, a gift from Trey when we hit last year’s sales goal. He reaches into his pocket and a new Volvo SUV beeps. “That’s me.”
He turns to me and smiles. It’s a nice smile, one warm and friendly. He steps forward and my heart speeds up. A kiss. My first kiss since Craig. Would I remember how to do it properly?
He extends a hand. “Thank you for meeting me. And for not being a serial killer.”
I laugh, and take his hand. “Agreed. I was actually planning on being a serial killer but decided against it. My day is kind of full. Meetings.” I smile and I think he can tell I’m joking.
He steps back and waves. “I’ll call you. If that is okay.”
“It is.” I return the wave, and wait for him to turn, to walk away before I dig into my pockets for my keys.
“You told him you were a serial killer?” The wind ruffles the papers in Trey’s hand, and I glance toward them worriedly.
“Can we step inside?” I ask. “You’re going to lose something.”
He pushes the door open with his foot, holding it in place as he waves me through. “Is that what you wore?”
“No, I went home and changed,” I say tartly. “Yes, this is what I wore. It’s nice.” The questionable outfit—a Jones New York skirt suit, one I had paired with a sweetheart top. Not the most casual of first date attire, but I’d met Stephen in the middle of a work day. A mini-dress hadn’t exactly seemed appropriate.
“Yes,” he agrees, pulling the door closed, the wind quieting, the sound of sports coming from another room. “It’s nice. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
I pull off my suit’s jacket and hang it over his stairway banister, pulling the hair away from my neck and following him to the kitchen, where he straddles a stool and flips over the first page of the contract. “You don’t want to dress nice when you go on a date, Kate.”
“Sorry,” I respond tartly. “We can’t all work from home during the playoffs.” I open his fridge, reaching down to the bottom drawer, where he keeps my Diet Coke. I grab one and push the drawer closed with my foot, elbowing the door shut before turning to him. His eyes flick up to my face. “Grab me one?”
“A Diet Coke?” I raise my eyebrows. He doesn’t drink diet. More than that, he scoffs at any man who does.
“There are regular ones in the same drawer. Underneath yours.”
I yank open the door and bend back over, digging through the ice cold pile of bottles, getting frustrated when I can’t … I look over my shoulder and see Trey settled back on the stool, one foot up on the adjoining stool, his eyes fixed on my ass. I straighten and his eyes jump to mine. “What?” he asks.
“You don’t have any regulars in there.”
“Maybe they’re in the other drawer, to the left of it. But arch your back this time. And moan a little.”
I sling my can of Diet Coke at his head, and he catches it, one-handed, a mischievous smile lighting up his face. “What? I’m thirsty!”
“I’m sure you are,” I grumble, kicking the door shut and leaning against the counter. “I ought to sue your ass for sexual harassment. “
“Wear that suit in court and no one will believe you.”
“It’s not that bad.” I glare at him and steal my soda back, tapping the lid before I crack it open.
“What’s underneath it?”
I ignore him and push the contract forward. “Sign this so I can get out of your hair.”
“Fine. Come over here and explain it to me.” He drops his foot from the other stool and pulls it out, his hand fishing in the top drawer of the island for a pen.
Trey Marks has several sides, but his business mode is the most tempting. It’s the seriousness that takes over his face, the somber tone, that smooth tongue that delivers words like boning, peephole, and thong without hesitation. I’ve taken advantage of it, stocking our meetings with female buyers, their reactions similar to my own, the entire room one big estrogen explosion by the time he slips his hands into his pockets and strolls out.
Now, I move to his side of the island and perch on the stool, leaning forward and pulling the cover page back into place. I have barely begun my explanation when I feel the tip of his pen pulling up the edge of my skirt. I stall, my eyes dropping to my thighs, the skirt inching higher, past my knees, now my thighs. My hose ends, my skin pale against the edge of the black lace, and my breath catches when the tip of the metal crosses onto my skin. “Easy…” he says slowly. “I’m just checking…” He slides the pen along the top of my stocking, until he reaches the garter clip. “What are these, the Mirabellas?”
“Yes.” I reach down to tug the skirt back into place and he swats away my hands.
“Put your hands on the counter, Kate. This isn’t going anywhere.”
This isn’t going anywhere? This has already gone somewhere it shouldn’t.
“I’m not touching you, Kate. Calm down.” He sounds so mild, as if he is examining packaging samples or marketing copy.
I let out a frustrated breath. “What are you doing?” We don’t do this. This is not playful flirtation, not when I am wet from just the touch of his pen.
A blue sweater, the fabric snug around a manly build, his height tall enough that I can wear heels and still be shorter.
I rise, and extend a hand. “Hi. You must be Stephen.” We shake hands, and it is a good handshake, firm but not businesslike, his hands soft and warm, everything about him reassuringly conservative. “Please, sit down.”
He pulls out the opposite seat and settles into it, and there is a moment of awkward silence, one where I sip my coffee and he straightens his glasses, and I can’t, for the life of me, think of a single thing to say. Our eyes meet, he smiles, and I laugh despite myself.
“This is my fifth blind date,” he admits. “You’d think I would have learned something aside from my name by now.”
“My eighth.” I smile. “You look like you recently bathed, so you don’t really have to say anything. You’re already ahead of the rest.” It’s a lie, and he knows it, but he leans forward and conversation begins to flow.
“So you work in retail?” He tucks his hands into his pockets as we walk, his head down, ear cocked to me.
“Sort of. I work for an undergarments company. We supply to retail shops and some high-end chains.”
“Undergarments. Like underwear, hosiery?”
I nod, pulling back my hair into a low ponytail. “Yes. Less hosiery and more of the delicate items. Bras, panties, garters, babydolls. The sexier stuff. Our lines are fairly provocative.”
Trey would have made a sly comment, worked a compliment in, but Stephen only nods, his face a mask of concentration. “And what do you do for the company?”
“I model.”
The joke falls flat, and he only nods, as if I am serious, as if there is any chance of my frame on a cover. “I’m joking,” I hurry. “I’m the Creative Director; I’m responsible for the overall vision and the execution of it.” I feel the burst of pride that comes whenever I say my title.
“That’s nice.” We take the path into the park, a canopy of trees providing a break from the sun. His arm brushes mine, a reminder of where I am and who I am with. Not Trey, who is accustomed to my long stretches of silence, but this man, who probably thinks I’m odd. I am trying to think of something to say when he speaks. “How long have you been there?”
I relax a bit. “A year and a half.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“I do,” I say honestly. “Trey is very good to work for. We get along well.”
“That’s nice.”
I ask him what he does, and learn that he is an oral surgeon. A fancy dentist, as he says. He travels two days a week, has a rescued dog, and a mother in Chula Vista. We both love sushi and hate Star Wars. We are both Words With Friends enthusiasts, and—unless I am misreading the look in his eye—we both want to see each other again.
We end our walk at the parking lot. Ahead of us, my bright red Mercedes convertible sits, a gift from Trey when we hit last year’s sales goal. He reaches into his pocket and a new Volvo SUV beeps. “That’s me.”
He turns to me and smiles. It’s a nice smile, one warm and friendly. He steps forward and my heart speeds up. A kiss. My first kiss since Craig. Would I remember how to do it properly?
He extends a hand. “Thank you for meeting me. And for not being a serial killer.”
I laugh, and take his hand. “Agreed. I was actually planning on being a serial killer but decided against it. My day is kind of full. Meetings.” I smile and I think he can tell I’m joking.
He steps back and waves. “I’ll call you. If that is okay.”
“It is.” I return the wave, and wait for him to turn, to walk away before I dig into my pockets for my keys.
“You told him you were a serial killer?” The wind ruffles the papers in Trey’s hand, and I glance toward them worriedly.
“Can we step inside?” I ask. “You’re going to lose something.”
He pushes the door open with his foot, holding it in place as he waves me through. “Is that what you wore?”
“No, I went home and changed,” I say tartly. “Yes, this is what I wore. It’s nice.” The questionable outfit—a Jones New York skirt suit, one I had paired with a sweetheart top. Not the most casual of first date attire, but I’d met Stephen in the middle of a work day. A mini-dress hadn’t exactly seemed appropriate.
“Yes,” he agrees, pulling the door closed, the wind quieting, the sound of sports coming from another room. “It’s nice. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
I pull off my suit’s jacket and hang it over his stairway banister, pulling the hair away from my neck and following him to the kitchen, where he straddles a stool and flips over the first page of the contract. “You don’t want to dress nice when you go on a date, Kate.”
“Sorry,” I respond tartly. “We can’t all work from home during the playoffs.” I open his fridge, reaching down to the bottom drawer, where he keeps my Diet Coke. I grab one and push the drawer closed with my foot, elbowing the door shut before turning to him. His eyes flick up to my face. “Grab me one?”
“A Diet Coke?” I raise my eyebrows. He doesn’t drink diet. More than that, he scoffs at any man who does.
“There are regular ones in the same drawer. Underneath yours.”
I yank open the door and bend back over, digging through the ice cold pile of bottles, getting frustrated when I can’t … I look over my shoulder and see Trey settled back on the stool, one foot up on the adjoining stool, his eyes fixed on my ass. I straighten and his eyes jump to mine. “What?” he asks.
“You don’t have any regulars in there.”
“Maybe they’re in the other drawer, to the left of it. But arch your back this time. And moan a little.”
I sling my can of Diet Coke at his head, and he catches it, one-handed, a mischievous smile lighting up his face. “What? I’m thirsty!”
“I’m sure you are,” I grumble, kicking the door shut and leaning against the counter. “I ought to sue your ass for sexual harassment. “
“Wear that suit in court and no one will believe you.”
“It’s not that bad.” I glare at him and steal my soda back, tapping the lid before I crack it open.
“What’s underneath it?”
I ignore him and push the contract forward. “Sign this so I can get out of your hair.”
“Fine. Come over here and explain it to me.” He drops his foot from the other stool and pulls it out, his hand fishing in the top drawer of the island for a pen.
Trey Marks has several sides, but his business mode is the most tempting. It’s the seriousness that takes over his face, the somber tone, that smooth tongue that delivers words like boning, peephole, and thong without hesitation. I’ve taken advantage of it, stocking our meetings with female buyers, their reactions similar to my own, the entire room one big estrogen explosion by the time he slips his hands into his pockets and strolls out.
Now, I move to his side of the island and perch on the stool, leaning forward and pulling the cover page back into place. I have barely begun my explanation when I feel the tip of his pen pulling up the edge of my skirt. I stall, my eyes dropping to my thighs, the skirt inching higher, past my knees, now my thighs. My hose ends, my skin pale against the edge of the black lace, and my breath catches when the tip of the metal crosses onto my skin. “Easy…” he says slowly. “I’m just checking…” He slides the pen along the top of my stocking, until he reaches the garter clip. “What are these, the Mirabellas?”
“Yes.” I reach down to tug the skirt back into place and he swats away my hands.
“Put your hands on the counter, Kate. This isn’t going anywhere.”
This isn’t going anywhere? This has already gone somewhere it shouldn’t.
“I’m not touching you, Kate. Calm down.” He sounds so mild, as if he is examining packaging samples or marketing copy.
I let out a frustrated breath. “What are you doing?” We don’t do this. This is not playful flirtation, not when I am wet from just the touch of his pen.
