Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

  Sexy Spice: That's okay. I hope that means good things.

  I'm surprised by his quick reply.

  SC: Can we do lunch instead? I'd like to run through another demo.

  Licking my dry lips, I sink further down into my pillows. How about lunch? Does that relieve the burden and expectation of sexual tension? Maybe that's a good thing. Then why do I feel so disappointed? Ok, Josie, put your girlfriend hat on and try to be supportive. Pouting is unbecoming.

  SS: Sure, lunch would be great. Meet you at 1:00?

  SC: Make it 12:00. I need to be in NY by 5:00.

  SS: K. See you then.

  There. I can be a supportive girlfriend, all I need is practice. Although technically speaking, is that what I am to him, or do those titles become irrelevant now?

  Slitting one eye toward the clock, I realize it's only seven am. Why is he up at seven am? No matter, the reality is I can sleep in a while longer. With that comforting thought, I drift back into dreamless slumber, finally opening my eyes again at ten.

  Moving the dead weight of one fearsome feline from my chest, I stretch my limbs, arms and legs sliding against the sheets. Daisy mimics my moves before shaking out her fur and leaping to the floor. Moments later, I hear crunching coming from the kitchen as she enjoys breakfast.

  "Daisy, put on a fresh pot of coffee," I yell to the kitchen, as if I expect her to do just that. I don't know why it makes me feel better to tell her these things. Maybe I just feel less alone in the morning. One day, I'd like to live in a world where she could actually bring me coffee in bed. Hell, at this point, I'd settle for anyone bringing me coffee in bed.

  Getting ready for my lunch with Mark, I thumb through my emails, noting some messages from Patsy regarding advertising for Mark's culinary night. I'd love to see her expression if I told her that Mark decided entry was permitted only to those wearing nothing but bras and panties. Knowing Nate, he'd strip down to his boxer briefs without being asked.

  Actually, the more I think about it, Nate would probably demand to be allowed to sit there in nothing but his underwear. I'll have to be very careful what I say around him for a while. He's entirely too perceptive, and if he knew what I was doing with both Mark and Heath, I'd never hear the end of it.

  Twisting my hair carelessly into one fat braid, I decide to stay true to my day off attire, especially since we're meeting so early. It's time the guys got a glimpse of the real me—warts and all. Decision made, I slip on my ripped bootleg jeans and an oversized white, men's v-neck t shirt.

  The only thing I ever regretted after breaking my engagement was not being able to steal Rob's t-shirts any more. It didn't take me long to realize I could buy and wear them without a guy's permission. Why should they be able to claim one of modern day's most comfortable garments for themselves? Besides, they make my boobs look great!

  Throwing back the rest of my now cold coffee, I realize if I don't leave soon, I'm going to be late. Before getting underway, I search for Daisy, only to find her curled up in the sunshine on her favorite windowsill. Yelling a promise to see her later, I head out for today's adventure, a small buzz of excitement fluttering in the pit of my stomach.

  * * *

  Holy mother of God, is that a dog or a llama? I wonder as the elevator doors slide open and ninety pounds of shaggy, white fur lumber toward me.

  Simon's face lights up as he recognizes me, and I bend slightly to pet the furry beast wiggling excitedly at my feet.

  "You must be Brutus!" I singsong, rubbing his soft ears as he whines and strains to get closer. "What a handsome boy."

  Yes, I'm one of those annoying people who speak to animals like children. You always know the true animal lovers, because they have an entire arsenal of special voices used to coax, scold, and praise their furry counterparts.

  "Josie, what brings you here? Are you stalking me?" Simon asks, eyes brimming with laughter while holding tightly to Brutus' leash to keep him from knocking me over. Too late. One strong paw to my shoulder, and I tumble backward from my half crouch to land on my ass on the marble tile. Hail Josie, full of grace.

  "Brutus! That's no way to treat the ladies," Simon scolds. "Sorry, luv. He's not usually so bad mannered." Reaching a hand down, Simon pulls me to my feet as I dust off the seat of my jeans.

  "No worries," I laugh. "I'll take my kisses where I can get them, no matter how sloppy." See how easy it is to avoid topics better left alone?

  "Ahhh, well, I'm sure we can do better than that," he jokes, eyes focused on my exposed cleavage. My new balconette bra is a feat of aerodynamics, and my cleavage actually looks sexy rather than one massive lump of monoboob. I've managed the perfect combination. Let's all bow our heads to honor the magical mystery that is a man's white v-neck t-shirt.

  "Promises, promises," I tease back as his eyes finally lift to mine with a wicked grin.

  "Oh, are you a betting girl then?"

  "Not at all," I assure him. "If anything, I am immune to flattery."

  "That's a pity," Simon assures me. "How else are us poor blokes supposed to impress you?"

  Well, the bulge in those tight jeans will do nicely for now. Although, I realize I'd love to peel back the edges of his t-shirt to see what the rest of that tattoo looks like. If memory serves, I'm certain that I've drooled over shirtless images of him in the past, yet I can't picture it in my head. I suppose I could Google it but, swiping my tongue across my dry lips, I realize that I'd much prefer to see it up close and personal. Maybe trace it with my tongue…

  Brutus' woof distracts us both as he whines and strains toward the brass and glass doors, Simon smiling ruefully at me.

  "Do you want to walk with us? Or maybe continue this conversation later?"

  Danger! Danger, Will Robinson! Sidling toward the elevators, I give him my blandest smile.

  "Yeah, I'm sure Mark would love to have you join us for dinner some time." Remembering my first dinner with Heath, and how he brought me to Mark, I realize that maybe that's not the best example. Instead, I try speeding things along. "Gotta go. Have a nice walk. I'm sure I'll see you around, Bye Brutus!"

  Nothing to see here folks. Ignore the smoke signals going up between us. I repeat, no smoke, no fire, chanting it in my head like a mad person.

  It's always best to let sleeping dogs lie.

  Chapter 22

  Take Me to Your Breeder

  "Hey, sexy."

  The arms that immediately lock me into his chest are gratifying, but the lips—oh, those lips—set my soul on fire. Full and firm, warm and demanding.

  Lust is alive and well, and leaving a damp spot in my thong. What's love got to do with it? Nothing at the moment, but where there's lust, surely love can follow, and I can honestly say at this moment, I'm quite content living in a state of like.

  The solid wood of the door shifts behind me as Mark uses the inertia of my body to push the door shut before finally pulling away. His welcoming grin is so naughty and boyish that my hand immediately sweeps through his unruly hair now tumbled across his brows so that I can see his eyes better.

  "Hello to you, too. It seems that maybe you've missed me." I'm embarrassed by my slightly breathless response, squeaking slightly as he suddenly grinds his hips against mine. Yep, he definitely missed me, if the solid bulge prodding my belly is any indication.

  "So, what's happening in New York today?"

  The sudden uncertainty in his eyes cuts me to the quick. I'm still shocked by his willingness to let me see this side of him, and not for the first time. It endears him to me more than the sexy arrogance, since it's such a complete contradiction of what I expect.

  As if regretting his show of vulnerability, he steps back, running his own hands through his hair before grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the kitchen. Mise en place is already set up, and I'm surprised to see that the dining room chair is placed for me to sit in once again.

  Tilting my head, I ask the question that's on the forefront of my mind. "Am I stripping down again?" My hands
grip the back of the chair as I wait curiously for his answer.

  A flash of raw desire crosses his face, before being quickly replaced with a regretful sigh.

  "As tempting as that thought is—and believe me, there's nothing I'd enjoy more—if you don't mind, I need exactly the opposite right now." The cocky façade reasserts itself as he rushes to reassure me. "Trust me, that image is fully ingrained in my memory. For now, I'll have no problem remembering the look on your face as you rode my dick with your legs over my shoulders."

  Down girl! Even the slight burn of embarrassment heating my cheeks can't keep me from reliving the sense of being so full of him inside me, that I never realized how empty I had been feeling. It's a wonder I haven't been walking funny for days.

  It takes his serious tone to push back those memories and bring me back to the discussion.

  "I really need to impress them this time and show some finesse. Honestly, I feel like I'm on one of those shows where they make them do all those camera challenges each week to see how many ways they can fuck it up. I'm just lucky enough not to have to do it under the microscope of a million eyes."

  Sighing internally, I rise to the challenge. Instalust is all well and good, but maybe I need to pace myself, considering I still have time with Heath coming up this week.

  "Okay, let's see what we can do." Eyeing him critically, I realize we are wearing almost identical outfits—ripped jeans and white v-neck tees. What are the chances? I'd certainly hate for someone to photograph us for one of those stupid 'who wore it better?' articles, because I'm pretty sure I'd lose.

  "Are we sticking with our original theme?"

  "Which one?" He looks slightly puzzled.

  "The 'Late Night Date Bites.' Which Patsy and the advertising team love, by the way. They're practically foaming at the mouth at the thought of blasting a picture of you and that tagline all over social media."

  His slight wince makes me laugh. Who would have thought he'd balk at being portrayed as a sex symbol?

  "Because you look the part for that right now. If you're going to go all 'chef-y' on me, we need a wardrobe change," I answer practically

  "Why? It's cooking, not a fashion show."

  "Au contraire, my friend. That outfit says 'sexy man cooking up food porn for his woman.' It does not say serious restaurant chef. The mise en place, however, that says serious chef. So pick a lane and stay there. It's all about packaging. If Emma's taught me anything, it's about the importance of matching the words and actions to the image. So who do you want to be?"

  Judging by the confusion on his face, I need to give him a nudge.

  "Mark, talk to me. From what I've had a chance to learn in our time together, I think I know where you should be headed, but it needs to be authentic. I don't want to put undue influence."

  "Does it matter what I want? Shouldn't it be about what the network wants?"

  "All right, let's start with what the network wants. Do you know what's in their head? What kind of show is it supposed to be?" I ask reasonably.

  "I don't really know, since they've never said directly. They just keep saying they want me to show them what I've got. And they've asked me to develop a concept." Brightening slightly, he adds, "They did seem a bit intrigued by the late night bit when I mentioned it."

  Nodding in satisfaction, I step briskly into the kitchen and start removing all the small bowls of ingredients laid out so neatly on the countertop.

  "Good, late night it is. And it matches the outfit. But all of this has to go," I say as he sputters in protest.

  "I'm cooking with that!"

  "No, you're not. If this was about us coming home late at night after a date, you would be randomly pulling things out of the fridge to make something special that would impress me. Yummy, but sexy. Quick but light—or maybe decadent—because in the end, we have other things to do."

  My coy smile indicates what else should be on the menu, pulling an answering smile from him.

  "So, woman, now that I have you here, what would whet your appetite?"

  "That! That's exactly the tone you need. Every episode, you bring home your sexy date and ask what she's craving. Let her pull the ingredients—or even a single ingredient—from your fridge, and do whatever you can to make a quick bite to impress her. Nothing crazy, just something easily shared that will create dialogue and a connection in the kitchen."

  Clearly, I've captured his imagination now as he sweeps his arm toward the refrigerator, inviting me to do just as I suggested. It's pretty amazing to rummage through a chef's refrigerator, and somewhat alarming. I'm going to have to step up my game if I ever intend to allow Mark through my front door, because I'm pretty sure my desiccated vegetables and assortment of frozen dinners will not impress him.

  It's not that I'm a total fast and prepared food junkie. I often like to cook. It's more that working late nights and a small budget don't often equate to the beautiful fresh produce that resides on the shelves of Mark's double-wide, stainless steel, Viking masterpiece. While I'm tempted by the array of expensive and exotic ingredients, I know that to really make him embrace our idea, I need to stay in the realm of simplicity.

  "Here you go."

  "Spinach?" Mark glances askance at the bag of baby spinach in my hand.

  "Uh huh."

  "Just spinach? Isn't that a bit…boring?"

  "Is it? You're the master. Dazzle me. Or are you just a one trick pony—no talk, just bite?"

  The gleam of his teeth assures me that if I were writing Mark as a shifter, he'd be a wolf…or maybe a shark.

  "Oh, when I'm ready to bite, you'll know it," he assures me.

  "Really? Then show me what you got, big boy. Because the clock starts ticking…now. You've got thirty minutes. And don't forget to tell me what you're doing and keep me engaged."

  His groan echoes through the kitchen as he suddenly turns serious, eyes darting toward the pantry as if building a strategy.

  "Flirt with me."

  "What?" His distraction doesn't bode well, he's already in full chef mode.

  "Flirt. With. Me. You're thinking, not talking. The audience has no idea what's in your head. Tell me what you're making. Use food to build innuendos, but find a way to make it sexy and not 'porn star chef.' More, 'did you know that oysters are potent aphrodisiacs,' not 'is that a cucumber in your pocket or are you just happy to see me.'"

  His answering laugh is encouraging as garlic suddenly appears, along with some shallots, heavy cream, and nutmeg—color me intrigued—followed by eggs.

  His movements are smooth and fluid as he chops and swirls butter in a sizzling pan, and after a few gentle prompts, over the next thirty minutes, I'm fascinated by his dialogue. For the most part, stories flow more easily about cooking with his grandfather and growing spinach in the garden with his mom, until freshly creamed spinach finally ends up tucked gently inside a perfectly folded omelet.

  The plate slides across the countertop, where I've perched to watch the show, legs swinging gently in front of the cabinets, as a fork plunks down next to the plate. Raising my fork, I tap it against his own like crossing swords, before breaking off a piece of the omelet, savoring the creamy center.

  "Damn," I groan, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. "That's amazing. I can't believe how different creamed spinach tastes when made from scratch. The omelet is freaking fantastic too, but the creamed spinach is beyond extra."

  "Good, you like the food. How did I do talking?" Raising his fork, he spears some spinach as I bat his hand away with my own fork.

  "Thief! Mine! Stay back!" Brandishing my fork again, I point it straight at him as if to ward against future attacks. "You're getting much less stiff. I felt like I learned something today, some tricks I could take away, and the recipe seemed simple enough. Although, you could slow down a bit. If anything, you could ask me a few questions along the way. You just need to be careful that they're targeted. You wouldn't want someone to hijack the conversation if you were doing a live interview. Bu
t I kind of like the feel of a chef asking my opinion virtually, even if I can't really answer."

  Standing in front of me, Mark's hands rest on my knees as I eat, watching the fork move from the plate to my mouth, in satisfaction.

  "It's really nice to see a woman eat with pleasure. I always say a healthy appetite for food is a good sign of other things. I like my women unrepentant in their appetites."

  As his hands drift to my ass, he slides me closer to the edge of the countertop, stepping between my legs and wrapping them firmly around his hips.

  "I tend to disagree a bit about not being as stiff as I was." Pressing the bulge in his jeans against my center, he jokes, "If anything, I think I feel even more stiff than I did when you first got here. If you want me to relax, I think you're going to need to coach me through it."

  I stop licking my fork, an arrested expression on my face, before dropping it to the plate with a clatter.

  "Let's see what I can do."

  My hands pop the button on his jeans, dragging them down his hips slightly to reveal the broad head of his cock. Commando as usual, I see.

  "Aren't you afraid of accidentally catching some of this magnificent flesh in your zipper one day?"

  My hand slips into his jeans to wrap around the pulsing warmth as his hand wraps around mine, squeezing tightly.

  "Magnificent, huh?" The single raised brow is quickly joined by the other as I lightly scratch the edge of one silver-tipped nail around the base, causing him to stiffen further in my grip.

  "Well, I am supposed to be building your confidence," I laugh, our eyes connecting, even as my hand slides up and down his heated length, making him squirm.

  Warm lips lean down to mine, sucking the pillow of my bottom lip between his own, before biting and tugging playfully. Well, two can play that game. Breaking free, my lips sweep across his neck to latch onto one earlobe before nipping the fleshy bottom.