Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

"Why not? It's okay, I have a cleaning woman who comes in every week."

  "That's not the issue, and you know it," I argue as we set off down the street. It's a good thing I'm wearing jeans, since my stride is not nearly as long as his. "Why are we doing this? Why couldn't we stay at the restaurant?"

  "Because I have a theory, and you're going to help me test it out. A trial run, so to speak. I'm going to cook and talk while I do it. You're going to listen and offer feedback. I need to know if I can do this."

  "Ok, but why couldn't we do it in the restaurant?"

  "Because there's too many dishes going out at once and I'll throw off the line. Besides, if I'm awful, I don't really want anyone else to hear it. Why are you so concerned about doing it at my place?"

  "I'm not concerned. It just seems a bit awkward."

  "Why? Don't you ever invite friends to your place?"

  "Well, sure."

  "So what's the big deal? You're just a friend having dinner at my place." Stopping in the middle of the street, Mark turns to face me. "What are you really afraid of—me or you? Do you need a chaperone? Do you want me to call Cliff?"

  "No." I answer quickly. "I'm a big girl. I think my reputation can handle it. Besides, you're not that irresistible."

  "Good, because we're here. And while I may not be that irresistible, you've just implied I'm somewhat irresistible, so I'll have to see if I can up my game."

  The self-satisfied smile that accompanies his words prompts an internal head slap as I resolve not to give him any more reasons to tempt me.

  Shiny brass and glass doors open to reveal a doorman who waves as Mark leads me toward the elevators. I've never been in this building, but as one of the newer luxury lofts in Olde City, I've been dying to see the interior. I'm excited to finally get my chance to see how they've adapted what was once an old factory and made it habitable.

  Feeling self-conscious, I step into the elevator with Mark, watching his reflection in the shiny doors. All of the stories I've read, where the characters fall into each other's arms as soon as the doors shut, suddenly flash through my mind. A slow trickle of sweat begins to gather between my breasts with each second that the elevator rises. What feels like an eternity is only seconds, but still, I avoid the slow grin reflected back at me from the metal surface, proof that I'm not the only one who knows the popularity of that particular fantasy.

  At last, we glide to a halt at the sixteenth floor—not the highest, but high enough I'm betting, to have great views of the city. My relief is short-lived as the doors slide open to a long corridor with only two entrances, reminding me how isolated I am here.

  Mark keys open the door on the right side of the hall, which leads directly into a large living area. Two long sets of windows bisect the room perpendicular to each other, and I gasp. I was wrong—he has spectacular views of the city.

  Out one window, the bright moon hangs over the bridge while tiny points of light march across it, the last of the evening traffic dissipating. Through the other window, lights shine from small tug boats drifting south down the river to usher large ships on their path to the shipyard.

  The view dims as Mark flips light switches throughout the space, illuminating pale gray walls and black furniture, the interior light competing now with the view outside. It's a very masculine design, raw brick walls and open pipework give hints of the factory that once existed here. While not overly large, it's still spacious, the most visible square footage taken up by the kitchen, which looks like it's had some custom upgrades. This is no standard kitchen, it's a serious chef's kitchen. The large, double refrigerators, multi-burner Viking stove, plus the grill top and sink in the center island, all point to someone who cooks and entertains on an expert level.

  The living and dining area blend together to create a comfortable space for hanging out, both easily accessible to the open kitchen. Two leather love seats face each other across a large, square coffee table, and a large, flat screen TV over the fireplace mantle tilts for viewing from both of the sofas or the dining table, which seats eight.

  Sounds emerge from the kitchen as Mark begins opening and closing cabinets, gathering ingredients for our impromptu dinner. It's like he's forgotten my presence now that he's moved into chef mode. Fine with me, I'll just continue my exploration of the room, gazing at family photos and looking for anything personal to give me some deeper insight into the man who insists on disrupting my world.

  "Bathroom?" I interrupt his methodical preparation, fully concentrated on his task.

  "Second door on the left." His muffled reply comes from inside the refrigerator, his head lost behind the open door. Talk about focus, I wonder if he's as intense when it comes to other things?

  Shaking away that train of thought, I slip down the hallway to the bathroom. Like the rest of the loft, it's spacious enough for comfort but not overly extravagant. White subway tile accented with black rectangular accents outline the large glass shower and backsplash, while white penny tile blankets the floor below the charcoal bath mats.

  Quickly taking care of business, I glance at myself in the mirror over the waterfall faucet and wonder what I'm doing here. If I'm honest with myself, I'm curious. I want to know more about Mark and observe him here where he's most comfortable. He's so different than Heath but just as appealing, only in different ways.

  I'm playing with fire, but like a moth, I feel irresistibly drawn to the flames. It's almost like I get mesmerized by all the pretty colors now and believe I can master them, like a snake charmer keeping the viper from striking. Delusions of grandeur? Let's hope not.

  Slipping back down the hallway, I peek through the half open doorway into what must be the master bedroom. I'm surprised by how stark the room is—one large platform bed, a couple low nightstands, and an elliptical machine tucked in the corner. Another large flatscreen TV blankets the wall opposite the bed, while high hat lights tuck tight against the ceiling emitting a soft glow. Two mirrored doors reflect back into the room from what looks like a walk-in closet, and on the far side, a bookshelf flanks another wall.

  My fingers itch to run along the book spines and explore the titles that make up his personal collection, but that feels wildly intrusive. If Emma were here, I know she'd think nothing of searching the shelves, and probably rifling through his closet as well.

  Realizing I've been longer than I should, I head back to the kitchen, where Mark has set up his mise en place for whatever he's cooking.

  Quirking an eyebrow, he motions me to sit in a dining chair that he's pulled into the kitchen, while taking a bottle of wine from a small refrigerator.

  "Done rummaging through my medicine cabinet?" The cork releases with a pop as he pulls two tall-stemmed glasses from a hanging rack, handing me a glass of what looks to be a quite lovely rosé.

  "I was not rummaging through your medicine cabinet," I splutter. At his amused look, I dig myself in further. "If you must know, I was staring at your bookcase wondering what hidden gems might be hanging out on your shelves."

  "Ahh." Damnit, now he knows I was in his bedroom. "Trust me, I tuck my jewels elsewhere, so you won't access them there. But feel free to go rummaging through my shelves anytime. In fact, you are more than welcome to borrow my copy of the Kama Sutra. We can make it our next book club discussion if you'd like."

  I pointedly ignore his smug smile by trying to deflect. "Eh, I've read it so many times now, it hardly seems worth revisiting. Seen them once, seen them all." My careless shrug is meant to convey disinterest, but I should have predicted it would just give Mark more fuel.

  "Really? What's your favorite position?" He stops chopping long enough to point his knife my way. "I'm betting you're a lotus girl." He waits a beat for my reply before continuing to chop.

  "Sometimes. Mostly deep lotus. There's a few special chair positions I like. Although…" I pause for emphasis. Two can play this game. "There's a tabletop position that tends to rock my socks," I finish with satisfaction, watching him pause again without lookin
g up.

  "You don't say." Chop, chop, chop.

  I settle back into my chair, sliding down slightly so that my crossed, denim clad legs stretch in front of me. "Mmmhmm…"

  Taking a swallow of my wine, I reflect on how comfortable I feel here. It's soothing to watch him cut and dice, knowing that I get to reap the benefits of a wonderful meal and a romantic dinner. Whoah! Back it up, Josie. No romance—friend zone only.

  Straightening in the chair, I realize I've allowed him to take us completely off track. That's not what this is about, and it's time I took back control of the situation.

  "Ok, stop what you're doing. That defeats the purpose." Surprised, he stops chopping, finally putting down the knife to lean his hands on the countertop and focus on my words.

  "First, tell me what the dish is. Second, tell me what you're doing. I need you to focus on me as if I'm the camera. I watch people do this every month in the store, amateurs and professionals alike. The one thing that sets apart the good from the bad is their ability to tell a story, and to make a connection with the audience. Go."

  A small furrow appears between Mark's brow as he begins to speak. "I'm making Pad Thai. Which means that I'm prepping these ingredients first."

  "What are the ingredients?"

  "The usual."

  "Mark, I've never cooked Pad Thai in my life. And even if I had, you need to convince me why I would want to cook it your way. Now,tell me what's in the dish."

  "You know, garlic, ginger, bell peppers—"

  "Never say ‘you know.’ I don't know—that's why you're teaching me. And stop staring at the counter, you need to look at me more. Continue."

  "So, I'm chopping all of my ingredients first."

  "Why?"

  "What do you mean ‘why’?" He frowns at me, puzzled.

  "Why are you doing it all first? Why not later? What's the big deal?"

  "Because they have to go in at a specific time, or one thing will overcook while you're preparing the other."

  "Good. Be sure to give me the why of what you're doing. Keep going." I continue to pepper him with questions, starting and stopping him multiple times, constantly reminding him to look up more, and wincing occasionally as he stumbles over his words.

  It's not that he doesn't know his stuff, it's just that somehow, he becomes stilted and loses his charm when he's explaining it to someone else. I imagine it comes from barking orders at his sous-chefs when he's on the line, but I'm going to need to break him of the habit.

  "Mark." He stops speaking again, searching my face before groaning.

  "I suck, don't I? Shit. I don't know why I can't get comfortable. I thought being in my own kitchen would make me more relaxed, but it's like I feel you there, judging me, and I can't be natural."

  "Well that's good, at least you recognize the problem. You just said the magic words—you need to relax into it. Why are you looking at me like I'm the enemy? Why do you think I'm judging you? You know what they always say," I joke, "it's hard to be uptight if you picture your audience sitting in their underwear."

  His thunderstruck expression would be amusing if he didn't speak.

  "Yes. Oh, that's good, you're right. I need a visual to connect to. Strip."

  "What?"

  "Strip down." The light in his eyes compels me to obey, even though the thought is ridiculous. "The sight of you in your bra and panties is sure to distract me from overthinking. Besides," leaning his elbows on the counter, he tries to bargain, "you did say you owed me."

  "That's ridiculous. This isn't the Brady Bunch or some stupid sitcom." Warmth begins to flush throughout my body in reaction to the heat radiating from his eyes. Are they always that bright, or does desire really cast sparks the way the stories promise?

  "What are you going to do when I'm not around? Ask the TV executives to take their clothes off?" I try to reason with him as his grin simply widens.

  "Josie, I'm sure the memory of you stripped down while I cook will be enough to sustain me for future occasions. Let's test it out and see."

  "No! I'm not stripping in your kitchen."

  "It's not like I've asked you to get naked. It's just a bra and panties, for God's sake. I'm sure you wear as much to the beach."

  "Well, if it's no big deal, then why do you need me to do it at all?"

  "C'mon, Josie! What are you afraid of? Can't handle a little adult admiration? Somehow, I thought you had more guts than that. I wouldn't have taken you for being so uptight." He stands again, turning away dismissively.

  "Damnit, Mark. Are you calling me a prude? I may not be some petite spinner, but I'm not ashamed of my body. There are men who love my curves."

  "And I'm here to tell you that I'm one of them. So why don't you let those secret weapons of yours out to play and take off your damn sweater!"

  "Fine. But maybe you should take off your pants, too. Those tight jeans are clearly strangling your brains. Let's see how you do when your briefs get to fly in the breeze."

  His wicked grin tells me even before he does.

  "You're flying commando aren't you?" I ask, slapping both palms over my eyes as he shrugs innocently. "It figures."

  The smell of ginger permeates the air as Mark removes the pan from the heat and waits.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Waiting for my visual." Leaning his hips back against the opposite counter, he crosses his arms and settles comfortably, as if he has all the time in the world.

  "Fine. Just remember, when you make it big, don't forget to give credit to the little people."

  Reaching down to the hem of my sweater, I pull it up and over my head, dropping it to the floor beside my chair. My breathing escalates slightly with Mark's slow smile as it traces the abundant curves of my breasts, following the wires and lace held together by swaths of baby blue satin. The puckering of my nipples registers the change in temperature, hardening further as the weight of Mark's stare lingers.

  Capturing his eyes with my own, I pop the top button of my bootleg jeans before slowly drawing down the zipper. His relaxed pose tenses slightly when my hands grip the sides of the waistband to drag my jeans over my hips and butt, catching the side strap of my thong along the way, until I pull my thong back upward as Mark groans.

  "That wasn't part of the deal." I remind him, finally easing my jeans over my dimpled thighs and sliding them to my ankles. Kicking them aside, I grab the chair, spin it backward, and drop to straddle it, arms resting atop the chair back.

  "Happy now?" I mock. Slow clapping greets me as I ignore him and get down to the business at hand.

  "Okay, ace, show me what you can really do. Let's turn up the heat and get cooking."

  Moving slowly back to the stove, Mark turns on the burner, grabs the peppers, and looks me in the eye. "How much heat can you handle?"

  "Give me all you got."

  Chapter 17

  Call Me Sexy Spice

  Smooth wood with hard edges dig into the soft flesh of my ass and inner thighs as I squeeze them against the wide seat of the chair. The dimpling of my skin used to embarrass me, but not anymore. I've become friends with my body. Silky thongs cause less panty lines than cotton briefs, and balconette bras show an abundance of cleavage that can't be hidden anyway.

  My fingers drum on the back of the chair as I wait for Mark to get into a rhythm. His eyes haven't left my body since I flipped the high back chair, obscuring his view, except for my outer thighs straining to accommodate the seat and the shifting of my breasts playing peekaboo through the slats of the chair back.

  I'm still wearing short bootie pumps, which tip my legs at a ninety-degree angle. It figures, my admiration for the wide chair seat that made it so comfortable for sitting the right way, now makes for an eye-opening spread when trying to straddle it in the opposite position.

  "Any time now." I invite him to begin again as he struggles to gather his thoughts and starts yet another monologue of dry facts.

  "Mark, stop."

  Shoulders falling
, he sighs. "Trust me, looking at you like that is definitely distracting. Maybe I miscalculated, because right now, you're more appetizing than what I'm cooking."

  "Perhaps that's the key." I draw my words out slowly, trying to make sense of it. "Try to use that energy." Licking my lips, I tell myself that I am doing this for purely philanthropic reasons. "Tell me what you'd like to do to me."

  "Are you serious?" The dark velvet of his voice melts my resistance like butter dancing in a hot pan. "Because right now I'd like to grab your hair in my fist and tilt your head back so you can't move your lips from mine."

  Well, damn. My eyes widen slightly as my tongue moistens my dry lips before clearing my throat.

  "Really? I mean, okay, great. That's the passion and energy I'm looking for. I need you to use that tone when you talk about the food." My legs shift uneasily on the chair again as they strain even wider to move forward on the seat. "When you think of touching me, try to use words that equate to what that would feel like in your cooking. For instance, what you just said about fisting my hair would be like the firm grip of your hand on the knife. If it were me over there, I might imagine the soft pillow of your lips as the perfect texture needed for the scrambled eggs. The bite of the scallions as the nip of your teeth against my lips." I switch the focus back to him as his eyes spark in interest at my words.

  "I bet the translucent sheen of the bean sprouts is what your skin looks like when it's damp from a long bout of sex." Mark's words slide around me as he turns up the burner. "I know that you taste sweet, like the brown sugar mixed with an edge of spice from the sriracha. That your hair slips through my fingers like perfectly cut rice noodles."

  The words are absurd, but the tone… Oh, the tone sets my appetite on fire, making me hungry for more than food. I lift my hair from the back of my neck, now sweaty from the steam of the kitchen as flames jump from the pan and Mark continues to talk.

  Whatever the words he uses, it doesn't matter anymore, because they flow fluidly, languid with an edge of intensity. I knew it was there. No one can be truly great at anything they don't have a passion for. Mark just needed to access his passion for food in a way that allows him to share that passion with others.