Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

  BD: I'll swing by then.

  Apparently, that's all that I'm going to get. Rubbing my damp hands on my thighs, I realize I've started to sweat. I must be ovulating if just three simple text messages has me feverish. Damnit. Survey says, Josie's hormones are in overdrive!

  Who knew the unexpected consequences when you finally break the seal on celibacy, even when it's self-imposed? My toys no longer satisfy, and my cravings for human touch are escalating. Maybe Heath was right to tease me about going into heat.

  Texting him quickly, I shift my thirsty thoughts to where they belong, asking how many pillows he likes to sleep with. As Mark has shown me, a little flirty sexting is good for the soul.

  His quick reply of 'one body pillow' is food for thought. Maybe I could skip down a few stores and grab a body pillow from the bath and home store. The quick follow up message assuring me that I'm the only pillow he needs reminds me of the night we spent curled up on my couch together.

  Good answer.

  * * *

  Baking is not my forte. I like to cook occasionally, but I see it as a creative endeavor. Or an experimental exercise. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. There's a reason I chose to work in a high end kitchen store. I come from a family of great cooks, yet there's not a baker among us. Personally, I hate the precision it entails.

  I've learned to let my palate be my guide. While I don't cook nearly as much as I used to, I scour food reviews almost as thoroughly as I do book reviews. They cause my foodie heart to go pitter pat. The culinary classes we host monthly may not have famous chefs, but there's always something new to learn and taste. Not a bad perk for an honest day's work.

  Would I have been as attracted to Mark if he hadn't been a chef? Maybe. He's certainly sexy. Though I tend to think that his innate arrogance might have turned me off if it hadn't been wrapped around something that I love.

  It's the same with Simon and music. I don't get starstruck by actors, but a sexy mellow or raspy voice can lure me with a soulful tune every time. It makes the package all the more attractive, even if not cloaked in traditional beauty.

  What can I say? Some people fall for athletes, or politicians and power brokers, but for me, it's always been rock stars and chefs. Someone might think it odd that Heath ended up in the mix, but he encapsulates my love for animals and the gentleness that entails.

  Considering how many years I searched for a single example of any of these paragons in my world, I'm in awe to have attracted all of them at once. Maybe my morning meditations have been helping me more than I realize. Visualization is real. Too bad you can't bottle and sell it. Or maybe I've finally earned some good karma. There was something to be gained by not killing Kenzie after all.

  Maria's voice crackles in my earpiece to bring me back to baking. Since I don't have the faintest idea of what a sticky toffee pudding entails, I handed off the task to Maria. As my baking expert, I always defer to her judgment.

  With quick efficiency, she pulled a recipe online and began stacking bowls, trays, and tools on the checkout counter. When told he needed a mixer, too, she tried to pull me into a full-blown debate on the merits of stand versus hand mixers. Backing away in horror, I told her to decide, but recommended that whatever she chose, it should be in their signature candy red color. I like the thought of Simon using a mixer the way someone else would a sports car. Too bad we can't add a pinstripe.

  Now comes the true test as the chime of a text message alerts me that Simon is here. Do I cause a riot by having him come in or ask someone to drag everything out to the car? Knowing how difficult it will be for him to park at this hour, I tell him to wait for me curbside.

  "Nate, can you grab Marco and help me drag this order outside for pick up? We can have Marco bring the credit card in to swipe while we get everything in the trunk."

  "What am I, a pack mule?" Nate grumbles.

  "No, but you're being a pain in my ass! Come on, it will be worth it. Besides, I want you to meet my new friend, Simon. You'll thank me later."

  "Fine, I guess I should be happy he contributed to sales today. Although, if you were going to introduce me to a new friend, I wish you'd bring Mark Isaacs’ sexy ass in here."

  "Bitch, bitch, bitch," I tease. "I'm grabbing my coat. I'll be back in a sec."

  When I return, Marco has the mixer and bags stacked on a small dolly to wheel out the back door, while Nate's hands are full.

  "Follow me, boys," I say as I wind my way toward the employee exit to find Mark's Cayenne parked at the curb.

  Simon jumps from the driver's seat to open the trunk as Nate and Marco stop in their tracks, recognition blooming across their faces.

  "Holy shit!" Marco says, a grin breaking across his face. "Hey, man."

  "How much did I buy, luv?" Simon asks as he surveys the mixer and bags being loaded into the trunk.

  "You said you needed everything." I shrug. "Maria said any sticky toffee pudding worth eating requires all of this, if you really don't have anything. Don't worry, we can return any duplicates or whatever you don't use."

  "You're the new friend?" Nate hoots. "What happened to the vet? Have you traded up already?"

  "Marco, Nate, meet Simon. Marco, can you grab his card and ring him out so we can get out of here?"

  "Sure! Are you playing here in the city? I'd love to see your set."

  "Nah, mate, I'm just lying low for now, doing some session work in New York. I'll have Josie let you know if I'm jamming anywhere."

  "Cool. I'm producing a couple bands I'd love to get some feedback on. Can I have Josie give you some tracks?"

  "Sure, mate. Hand them off. I always like hearing what's on the local beat."

  Eyes shining, Marco grabs Simon's card and darts back into the store, as Nate finally reaches forward to shake his hand.

  "How did you and Josie meet?" Flicking a frown my way he adds, "She never mentioned she knew you."

  "Oh, we've been bumping up against one another here and there. She offered to set me up since my flat is still bare."

  "Really? Josie, how much bare bumping have you and Simon been doing? I thought you were bumping up against the vet."

  "Knock it off, Nate!" I blush. "Simon is a friend of a friend, and Heath and I," I emphasize Heath's name, "had dinner with Simon the other night. I thought you might enjoy meeting him, but feel free to leave now."

  Marco returns with Simon's credit card slip as I open the passenger door to slip in.

  "Where's Brutus?" I glance back to Simon as he closes the truck.

  "I didn't know if he'd be welcome, and I didn't want to leave him in the car." He turns to the other guys. "Thanks, mate," Simon says as he fist bumps an overeager Marco, before waving lazily toward Nate as he heads to the driver's door. "Maybe we can all meet at the pub one night."

  The blinding smile on Marco's face was worth every minute. Even Nate smiles at the friendly invitation, raising his eyebrows at me to indicate how much he's dying to ask questions.

  Shaking my head at both of them, I slam the door before rolling the window down to bark a command. "Get back to work! The rumor mill is waiting."

  Laughing, I roll my window back up as they turn away, talking animatedly.

  Let the gossip begin.

  * * *

  "Sticky toffee pudding, huh?" I watch Simon carefully merge into traffic before he answers.

  "Not a fan of the sticky?" The grin suggests we're not talking about pudding.

  "I couldn't say." I glance nonchalantly out the passenger window. "I'm usually more about the savory than the sweet."

  "That's where you're wrong, luv. You need one to balance the other. It's all about the proper mix."

  The tired lines around his eyes suggest Simon could use some balance of his own.

  "Still not sleeping?"

  "I'm a bit antsy still. I was hoping to get some lyrics down. Baking helps."

  "How so?" I ask, intrigued.

  "Baking is mumsy. It puts me in a zone, and my brain works bett
er there. Usually, it helps me concentrate."

  "Ahhh, I get it. I usually need music in the background to write. That's kind of interesting if you think about it. You bake to write music. I need music to write stories. Isn't that ironic?"

  "I'm pretty sure that's already a song."

  Laughing, I agree. "So it is." The sight of my building approaching ends my musings.

  "Let me know if we need to return anything. You can just drop it back at the store and I'll make sure they ring up a credit. Good luck with your pudding. I hope it gets you in the zone."

  "Stop by and test it out if you get a craving for something sweet." Simon's look is hopeful. "You can come lick the beaters."

  "I think you should keep your beaters to yourself. But nice try."

  "I'll figure out what tempts you yet, luv. You can't keep it a secret."

  "Good luck with that! Have a great weekend."

  Slamming the door shut, I watch Simon pull away as I sigh in relief, glad that he hasn't fully realized that he is what tempts me. Because the minute he understands that, we're all cooked.

  Chapter 28

  The Perfect Gentleman

  Pacing nervously, I listen for the small tap that heralds Cedric's arrival, even though I sent the staff to bed hours ago to insure he didn't blunder into some overzealous footman. Not that it should matter. I am the mistress of this manor, but it's always better to keep gossip among the staff to a minimum.

  I don't know why I'm so nervous, except that this heralds our first true night of passion. For once, I want to see the real Cedric, to know how ardently his feelings run. I can no longer endure knowing that his affection might be a temporary affliction. Our few stolen kisses and caresses have me feverishly imagining what it will be like to feel cherished.

  With Cedric, I believe I can be myself—the young girl who was once so hopeful, until fate and society dictated I be something else. Lord Roderick's mocking words that pierce me like daggers mean nothing. Instead, the longing in Cedric's gaze assures me that I alone am the object of his affections.

  Still…Roderick's wicked smile ghosts before my eyes, whispering that I am meant to be more than adored. "You are like fire and ice, something to be consumed by the flames of…"

  * * *

  My eyes snap open, sweat gathering between my breasts as flames lick along my body. No, not flames. Just thirteen pounds of excess heat generated by one overly fluffy feline.

  Like some mummified corpse, I shift and shimmy to drag my arms from beneath the covers, annoying Daisy enough that she lumbers to her feet. Heavy paws dig into my breasts and pinch the delicate skin of my inner arm as I try to move her none too gently from my chest.

  Ouch. It's not that she's really that heavy, but all of that weight concentrated into one small paw creates enough pressure to bruise. I'm often shocked when I discover a new mark on my body and wonder where it came from. Not that I'm the most graceful person in the world.

  My tendency to inadvertently run into things has become legendary among my staff. The amount of times I cut a corner short and knock into the stockroom doorway, or the day I walked too close to a display and caught my upper thigh on the edge of the glass shelf. All of these mishaps are the reason I keep arnica and cold gel packs in the office.

  I've become a bit of a one-stop, walking, talking, accident-waiting-to-happen. It's like my mind is always moving faster than the leisurely pace my body prefers. My brain works in we're running out of time mode, and my body says, if we're running, there better be booty or bacon at the finish line.

  Even Maria won't let me too far into the kitchen during cooking classes. I think it's just because she's bossy and doesn't like people messing up her organized—some might say rigid—agenda. Marco and Nate tease me that I can't be trusted around open flames. Funny how they conveniently forget that I've been cooking for thirty years without mishap. Certainly, no one questions my skills when I bring in homemade chili and cornbread. Traitors.

  A soft meow reminds me that Daisy is still waiting patiently for her morning crunchies. The gentle purrs of encouragement drag me from my bed with a smile, knowing that tonight is my first official sleep-in with Heath. I shiver slightly in the cool air, my nude body suddenly flushing in remembered heat, as if trying to escalate my anticipation.

  Ticking down a mental checklist, I stop to pee, absently reaching down to scratch Daisy's ears as she purrs at my ankles, ready to launch herself into my lap. I'm quick to finish, pushing her down to the floor to discourage the claws just waiting to dig into my bare thighs.

  What is it with cats and bathrooms? It's almost as if they recognize that it's supposed to be private space and therefore claim it, and anyone in it, as theirs.

  Disgruntled meeps follow me to the sink, where I wash my hands and load my toothbrush before idly fondling the furry body now perched on the edge of the vanity. One paw bats at the trickle of water I've left flowing for her entertainment, determined to join my morning routine. It's difficult to be lonely when a small body follows you everywhere, but every so often, I crave the warmth of a larger body intent on sharing space in a way that brings me a different kind of companionship and love.

  My mind shies away from my neediness and innate longing. There's plenty of time to acknowledge that later…or never. First and foremost, I need to clean the house and prepare. While Heath, more than most, is unlikely to be freaked out by the tumbleweeds of cat hair lurking beneath the furniture, I should at least make some pretense of pretending they're not a common occurrence.

  Second, I need to change the sheets. No one other than Daisy or I have inhabited them in ages, but it's always important to set the right example. Maybe I've been scarred by too many memories of college dorm rooms and crunchy sheets. Even now, a shiver of distaste breaks out along my arms as I recall guys gloating about how many different girls they banged in their beds in a single night. Personally, I think they were spending too much time with their hand, but either way, hard pass.

  Next, what should I wear? We have yet to determine what we're doing, and I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard. What would Heath want to see me in? It's not like I wear anything to bed. I don't know that I even have any pretty lingerie to lounge in other than bras and thongs, and I refuse to be squeezed by straps and wires while I sleep.

  Wrapping my cashmere robe around me, I lean into the mirror, staring at the small lines around my eyes, the tightness around my mouth. I don't tend to obsess over every line and wrinkle, but it's a slippery slope. In my twenties, I felt invincible. In my thirties, my broken engagement took a little of the joy from my face and added a few worry lines I didn't need.

  Now, in my forties, I like my face. The small wrinkles add character, and I can still claim them as laugh lines. There's only a few random greys creeping into my hairline. My body is fuller, but hormones have always caused my weight to go up and down.

  They say couples get a seven year itch, but so do my hormones. I have to adjust my diet when those flashes occur, as the weight begins to settle unevenly around my hips and my breasts fill out another cup size. At the rate I'm going, I'll be able to claim full flotation device status in the next two years if I don't watch it. I've never been able to inhabit the ranks of the waifs. Hell, it would be a miracle to be an average size twelve.

  Occasionally, my confidence takes a hit, but I've found the sweet spot. I've dropped birth control pills for condoms, which means I've dropped ten pounds. I feel sexy in the right pushup bras and panties, and I don't apologize for enjoying sex. Even if it's solo sex. God would not have created toys if he didn't intend for us to use them.

  "Right, Daisy?"

  The tilt of her head indicates thoughtful consideration of my question. Or a tolerance of the craziness that she believes I exhibit, since she has not been privy to my inner monologue. This is why cats make superior companions, despite their incessant demands.

  "Time to make some magic, Baby Cat. I'll make coffee if you start dusting. Deal?"

&nbs
p; Her elegant leap seems promising, until she stalks across the bedroom to her favorite window and begins bathing herself in the faint patch of sunlight.

  "Fine. I guess I'll do both. But I'm telling Heath you didn't earn your catnip."

  A quick twitch of the ears indicates her lack of concern over my idle threats. She knows me too well.

  * * *

  The chime of the doorbell sends adrenaline racing through my veins, halting my pacing in the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, I calm myself with the reminder that this is just Heath, my secret Doolittle, my bookish boyfriend, and Tracey's dad…who I’d like to fuck.

  Warmth flows through me as thick and languid as honey as his laughing eyes take in my appearance, lighting with pleasure as the door opens slowly to allow him entrance. Somehow, we've managed to dress almost exactly the same, in dark cargo pants topped by a white men's v-neck t-shirt. Heath's running shoes are a contrast to my bare feet, and where my shirt hangs loosely across my breasts and camouflage-clad hips, his is tucked into khaki pants with a leather belt. Still, the irony isn't lost on me.

  "Well, if that's not some serious synchronicity, I don't know what is," Heath teases as he sweeps past me, a small overnight bag in hand. "You look great."

  "You, too. But if it turns out we're wearing the same size, I'll shoot myself."

  "Don't be ridiculous. Whatever size it is, I'm buying. Here take my money." He reaches for his wallet, but I smack his hand away from his pocket.

  "Flatterer. You don't have to buy it. I'll give you a special deal."

  "Sold! Where should I drop this?" Heath hefts his overnight bag in his hand.

  "Just drop it in the bedroom. Here, I'll show you." Without thinking, I gesture down the hallway. "How is Tracey? Does she know you're out on the prowl tonight?" I laugh as I switch on the bedroom light, only to realize that Heath is barely a breath behind me, his hand steadying my arm as I bump into him and wobble.