The Beau & the Belle
Page 47
Now I do laugh, because it’s all too ridiculous. “You’ve been researching sex positions?”
She doesn’t even blush. It’s like we’re talking about the weather. “I ran out of printer ink compiling a dirty dossier of sorts. It’s in a binder under my bed. I used tabs, Beau—tabs and dividers.”
“Why did you feel like you needed to do research? I’ve reassured you before that you’re seductive without even trying.”
“Oh, well, yeah. It’s simple.” She folds her hands on her lap and finally turns to face me. “That day in your office when I came to visit…you probably don’t remember it—”
“When you straddled me at my desk?”
Her brows and her voice both spike a little. “That’s the one. So, yeah, we were, umm…”
“Making out.”
“Yes, and then our lunch arrived and you told me you had to get back to work. I mean, my legs didn’t work. I couldn’t walk. I had to hold on to the wall in the elevator to keep from collapsing. When I made it out onto the street, I asked a mom if I could sit in her stroller if I held her baby.”
I laugh. “Okay, okay, so you really enjoyed it. What was the problem exactly?”
“Well you were able to just flip a switch and go right back into work mode. You were barely affected.”
“Are you kidding me? Couldn’t you feel how turned on I was?”
Her cheeks flush.
“I didn’t get any work done the rest of the day. I wanted you so bad it hurt.”
How could she have missed it?
Her mouth forms a little circle and her eyes go wide. She can’t meet my gaze, so I step around her stool, grip her shoulders, and turn her to face me. Her knees squeeze together magnetically.
“I stopped us that day because I didn’t want us to have sex in my office. It’s not exactly the way I imagined our first time.”
Her fingers absently go to my shirt. She’s playing with one of the buttons and then her finger slips through the gap in fabric and she’s lightly brushing my chest. Blood rushes south.
“So you’ve imagined our first time?”
I smile. “Hey, I’m still asking the questions.”
“Objection overruled. Now tell me, have you?”
“Every day for the last few weeks. I only take cold showers. I work out 30 minutes longer than I usually do. You haven’t let me kiss you in two weeks.”
She laughs. “Hilarious! I’m going to kill Rose.”
“Why?”
“She was the one to suggest that my kissing skills were to blame, that it might’ve clued you in to how inexperienced I am.”
“So if Rose hadn’t speculated that, you and I would have—”
She laughs and finally meets my gaze. Her hazel eyes are alight with humor. “Oh yeah, if she hadn’t broken my confidence, we’d have had sex ages ago—lots of it. We’d probably both need metal plates and screws in our pelvises by now.”
My hand slips under her curls and wraps around her neck. I can feel her little pulse against my thumb. Her heart is racing. I tug her closer and her head tips back to look up at me.
I’m seconds away from kissing her, but I need to finish clearing the air.
“I’m sorry about the other night. I took my anger out on you, and I regret that.”
She’s watching my mouth as I talk. I don’t think she’s listening to a word I’m saying.
“Lauren?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you accept my apology?”
“Yes, sure, and I’m sorry too, for the lying.” Her finger is absentmindedly drawing circles on my chest. She squirms and presses closer. “Can we talk about this another time? I’d really like you to kiss me now, and maybe break my pelvis.”
She arches up toward me at the same time that her hands go to my shoulders. She’s yanking me down with all her weight, trying to bring her lips closer to mine.
Her floral perfume hits me, and I’m reminded of why I chose roses at the florist this morning.
Our lips brush together, but I still don’t kiss her. “I think I should torture you like you’ve been torturing me these last few weeks. It’s ridiculous—I walk you home every night and you’ve been shaking my hand.”
Her expression turns pleading. “Don’t. Please, Beau.” Our lips brush together gently with every word she says. “This isn’t fair. I did that because I was scared, not because I didn’t want you! Kiss me or I’m going to die.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Your lips are so soft.”
I smile against her mouth. Our eyes are still open. Her hands are tiny little claws on my shoulders and I reach out instinctively, bringing her to the edge of the stool so our hips are better aligned. If she thinks I’m not interested, there should be no confusion now.
The door opens behind us and Lauren curses loudly—subcontractors, ready to get started for the day. When they see us, they stop dead in their tracks.
“Oh, sorry, ma’am—err, sir. We can come back.”
Lauren doesn’t move.
“It’s Carnival season, don’t mind us,” she calls. “Come right on in and pretend we aren’t even here.”
I laugh and step back. She moves with me. One more inch and she’ll tip off the edge of the stool.
“I thought you were good at holding a grudge?” I taunt.
“I am. Nothing has changed. Come over for dinner tonight.”
“You’re finally inviting me up to your apartment?”
“Yes. 7:30, be there—and bring wine and more cake. We have unfinished business.”
I’VE NEVER WORN lingerie for a man. I’ve never worn it for a woman either—except, I guess, for Rose. She was the one to force me into La Perla during a Black Friday sale a few years ago. I fought off three women for this set, slapped down my credit card, awkwardly belted out, “I don’t normally wear this sort of thing” to the cashier, and brought it home only to bury it away in my underwear drawer and forget it existed. I remembered it this afternoon. I finger the lace, playing should I or shouldn’t I, and then I slam the drawer shut again. Five minutes later, I sneak back in, pull the bodice and underwear out, and lay them on my bed. The photo of my parents on my dresser gets turned face down. The bird outside my window whistles; I draw the blinds.
At the time I purchased it, Rose convinced me the lingerie was tasteful. I try to see it through her eyes. To me, it looks like I’m trying too hard. It’s a beautiful black corset. The panties match, silk satin with sheer lace. I shave places on my body I didn’t even know I had then slather on tubs of lotion and hover in the doorway of my room. The lingerie taunts me. I tell myself I’ll just try it on and see if it still fits. My thoughts turn into an infomercial: It’s a miracle! My skin is glowing! My boobs have never looked better!
I have a red dress for later, but for now the lingerie gets hidden away under a fluffy white terrycloth robe. I’m cooking and don’t want to stain my outfit. Nothing will ruin tonight.
I spent the afternoon looking up recipes and grocery shopping. I know how to make all the usual boring staples: meat and veggies, pastas, Cajun food. Tonight, I’m going out on a limb and trying my hand at lamb chops with olives and capers. It takes me two hours to prepare the meal. I drink wine and try to enjoy the process, but in reality, I enjoy nothing. I’m too nervous. My hand shakes when I read the recipe. My forehead is damp with sweat. I’ve never used the convection setting on my oven before, but the recipe suggests it. I pour more wine. My hand shakes a little less and I decide it’s no big deal if I’m a little tipsy when Beau shows up. No, bad Lauren. I pour the wine into my ivy plant and vow to drink water from here on out. I put the lamb in the oven, though I think about taking its place.
It’s 7:00 PM. I have just enough time to put on my makeup. I swipe on my mascara, eyeshadow, and eyeliner. I catch a whiff of something good—roasting, caramelized meat. I wonder if Beau will drool more at the sight of me or at the meal I’m preparing. No—I want to be more appetizing than the main course. I lean forward and layer on another coat of mascara. Blush gets swiped onto the apples of my cheeks. My smoke alarm starts blaring and I jerk forward, millimeters away from jabbing my eye with the brush. When I look down, there’s smoke billowing into the bathroom from beneath the door. My roasted, caramelized meat now smells considerably more charred.
She doesn’t even blush. It’s like we’re talking about the weather. “I ran out of printer ink compiling a dirty dossier of sorts. It’s in a binder under my bed. I used tabs, Beau—tabs and dividers.”
“Why did you feel like you needed to do research? I’ve reassured you before that you’re seductive without even trying.”
“Oh, well, yeah. It’s simple.” She folds her hands on her lap and finally turns to face me. “That day in your office when I came to visit…you probably don’t remember it—”
“When you straddled me at my desk?”
Her brows and her voice both spike a little. “That’s the one. So, yeah, we were, umm…”
“Making out.”
“Yes, and then our lunch arrived and you told me you had to get back to work. I mean, my legs didn’t work. I couldn’t walk. I had to hold on to the wall in the elevator to keep from collapsing. When I made it out onto the street, I asked a mom if I could sit in her stroller if I held her baby.”
I laugh. “Okay, okay, so you really enjoyed it. What was the problem exactly?”
“Well you were able to just flip a switch and go right back into work mode. You were barely affected.”
“Are you kidding me? Couldn’t you feel how turned on I was?”
Her cheeks flush.
“I didn’t get any work done the rest of the day. I wanted you so bad it hurt.”
How could she have missed it?
Her mouth forms a little circle and her eyes go wide. She can’t meet my gaze, so I step around her stool, grip her shoulders, and turn her to face me. Her knees squeeze together magnetically.
“I stopped us that day because I didn’t want us to have sex in my office. It’s not exactly the way I imagined our first time.”
Her fingers absently go to my shirt. She’s playing with one of the buttons and then her finger slips through the gap in fabric and she’s lightly brushing my chest. Blood rushes south.
“So you’ve imagined our first time?”
I smile. “Hey, I’m still asking the questions.”
“Objection overruled. Now tell me, have you?”
“Every day for the last few weeks. I only take cold showers. I work out 30 minutes longer than I usually do. You haven’t let me kiss you in two weeks.”
She laughs. “Hilarious! I’m going to kill Rose.”
“Why?”
“She was the one to suggest that my kissing skills were to blame, that it might’ve clued you in to how inexperienced I am.”
“So if Rose hadn’t speculated that, you and I would have—”
She laughs and finally meets my gaze. Her hazel eyes are alight with humor. “Oh yeah, if she hadn’t broken my confidence, we’d have had sex ages ago—lots of it. We’d probably both need metal plates and screws in our pelvises by now.”
My hand slips under her curls and wraps around her neck. I can feel her little pulse against my thumb. Her heart is racing. I tug her closer and her head tips back to look up at me.
I’m seconds away from kissing her, but I need to finish clearing the air.
“I’m sorry about the other night. I took my anger out on you, and I regret that.”
She’s watching my mouth as I talk. I don’t think she’s listening to a word I’m saying.
“Lauren?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you accept my apology?”
“Yes, sure, and I’m sorry too, for the lying.” Her finger is absentmindedly drawing circles on my chest. She squirms and presses closer. “Can we talk about this another time? I’d really like you to kiss me now, and maybe break my pelvis.”
She arches up toward me at the same time that her hands go to my shoulders. She’s yanking me down with all her weight, trying to bring her lips closer to mine.
Her floral perfume hits me, and I’m reminded of why I chose roses at the florist this morning.
Our lips brush together, but I still don’t kiss her. “I think I should torture you like you’ve been torturing me these last few weeks. It’s ridiculous—I walk you home every night and you’ve been shaking my hand.”
Her expression turns pleading. “Don’t. Please, Beau.” Our lips brush together gently with every word she says. “This isn’t fair. I did that because I was scared, not because I didn’t want you! Kiss me or I’m going to die.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Your lips are so soft.”
I smile against her mouth. Our eyes are still open. Her hands are tiny little claws on my shoulders and I reach out instinctively, bringing her to the edge of the stool so our hips are better aligned. If she thinks I’m not interested, there should be no confusion now.
The door opens behind us and Lauren curses loudly—subcontractors, ready to get started for the day. When they see us, they stop dead in their tracks.
“Oh, sorry, ma’am—err, sir. We can come back.”
Lauren doesn’t move.
“It’s Carnival season, don’t mind us,” she calls. “Come right on in and pretend we aren’t even here.”
I laugh and step back. She moves with me. One more inch and she’ll tip off the edge of the stool.
“I thought you were good at holding a grudge?” I taunt.
“I am. Nothing has changed. Come over for dinner tonight.”
“You’re finally inviting me up to your apartment?”
“Yes. 7:30, be there—and bring wine and more cake. We have unfinished business.”
I’VE NEVER WORN lingerie for a man. I’ve never worn it for a woman either—except, I guess, for Rose. She was the one to force me into La Perla during a Black Friday sale a few years ago. I fought off three women for this set, slapped down my credit card, awkwardly belted out, “I don’t normally wear this sort of thing” to the cashier, and brought it home only to bury it away in my underwear drawer and forget it existed. I remembered it this afternoon. I finger the lace, playing should I or shouldn’t I, and then I slam the drawer shut again. Five minutes later, I sneak back in, pull the bodice and underwear out, and lay them on my bed. The photo of my parents on my dresser gets turned face down. The bird outside my window whistles; I draw the blinds.
At the time I purchased it, Rose convinced me the lingerie was tasteful. I try to see it through her eyes. To me, it looks like I’m trying too hard. It’s a beautiful black corset. The panties match, silk satin with sheer lace. I shave places on my body I didn’t even know I had then slather on tubs of lotion and hover in the doorway of my room. The lingerie taunts me. I tell myself I’ll just try it on and see if it still fits. My thoughts turn into an infomercial: It’s a miracle! My skin is glowing! My boobs have never looked better!
I have a red dress for later, but for now the lingerie gets hidden away under a fluffy white terrycloth robe. I’m cooking and don’t want to stain my outfit. Nothing will ruin tonight.
I spent the afternoon looking up recipes and grocery shopping. I know how to make all the usual boring staples: meat and veggies, pastas, Cajun food. Tonight, I’m going out on a limb and trying my hand at lamb chops with olives and capers. It takes me two hours to prepare the meal. I drink wine and try to enjoy the process, but in reality, I enjoy nothing. I’m too nervous. My hand shakes when I read the recipe. My forehead is damp with sweat. I’ve never used the convection setting on my oven before, but the recipe suggests it. I pour more wine. My hand shakes a little less and I decide it’s no big deal if I’m a little tipsy when Beau shows up. No, bad Lauren. I pour the wine into my ivy plant and vow to drink water from here on out. I put the lamb in the oven, though I think about taking its place.
It’s 7:00 PM. I have just enough time to put on my makeup. I swipe on my mascara, eyeshadow, and eyeliner. I catch a whiff of something good—roasting, caramelized meat. I wonder if Beau will drool more at the sight of me or at the meal I’m preparing. No—I want to be more appetizing than the main course. I lean forward and layer on another coat of mascara. Blush gets swiped onto the apples of my cheeks. My smoke alarm starts blaring and I jerk forward, millimeters away from jabbing my eye with the brush. When I look down, there’s smoke billowing into the bathroom from beneath the door. My roasted, caramelized meat now smells considerably more charred.
