The thought is stomach-turning. I don’t want her going to some sleazy sexpert, or even another friend.
I don’t want her turning to anyone else. Period. Sex-batical or no sex-batical, that’s unacceptable. And honestly, it’s probably worth breaking my two-months-and-counting fast.
I raise my gaze heavenward. Sean’s not here—may he rest in peace—but if his sister is fixated on finding someone in this city of millions to teach her how to come undone, and make a man do the same, it’s going to be me.
And fuck, do I ever want to see her come.
Maybe that makes me a bad man, but I’m finding being good is rapidly losing its appeal.
I walk Luna back to her truck, hug her goodbye, and then open CJ’s number on my phone.
I’m her friend, and I care deeply for her. I want her to know that. I also want to show her what kind of teacher I am.
The kind who doesn’t settle for less than 100 percent from his student.
Chapter Five
CJ
I pedal harder. Faster. I’m climbing Mount Freaking Everest now. I’m cresting the icefall, then the Lhotse wall, and now heading to the summit. My heart hammers so hard it’s like a drumbeat in my ears. My blood pumps rapid-river fast.
But not fast enough.
I push the tension higher on the bike. Set the incline steeper. Ride harder. My quads scream at me, and my lungs feel like they want to rip right out of my chest.
But “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen blasts in my ears, nearly intense enough to drown out my thoughts.
Nearly.
But not enough.
Because no matter how hard I work out at the gym this afternoon, no matter how loudly I blast my favorite Retro Cycling Goodness playlist, I can’t help but think I am a colossal idiot.
Who the heck asks a friend to take off their training wheels?
Correction. Who the heck asks a friend who isn’t even attracted to her to pop her cherry? And then holds his company hostage?
I need to face-palm right now, but if I do I’ll slide off the bike and crumple to a pathetic death on the sweaty floor of my gym wearing my Good Grammar is Sexy T-shirt, and all things considered, that’s not how I want to go. The gym charges a fortune for towel rental so who knows how much they would charge for a full-body disposal.
As my heart slams against my rib cage, I imagine Graham poring over the newspaper on his tablet, quietly comparing the latest tragic world events to the tragedy of a woman reaching her mid-twenties without finding anyone willing to pluck her daisy. Graham out for a jog and running out of breath because he can’t stop cracking up over silly CJ, the weirdo spinster virgin. Graham in the middle of a meal and losing his appetite as he realizes he’ll have to find a gentle way to tell me that he has no interest in acquiring the deed to my property.
After all, it’s been hours, and he hasn't called. He hasn’t texted. He’s clearly going to give me a big fat no and tell me to hit the road.
I raise my chin, try to inhale deeply, exhale completely, and let go.
It’s cool. I’m chill. I’ll just ride till I collapse, then I’ll nap till the embarrassment washes away in, oh say, 2056.
My phone rattles on the control panel, startling me.
I slow my pace, nearly spinning off the bike when I see his name.
Graham . . .
My heart leaps into my throat.
This is it. The moment my brazen attitude slaps me in the face.
Graham: Hey
I study the text as if something, anything, in those three letters will tell me if that’s a let’s-get-it-on hey or a please-don’t-throw-your-vagina-at-me hey. But I come up empty, so I serve it back to him.
CJ: Hey
Graham: How’s it going?
I’m hot. Sweaty. Panting.
But of course that would send the wrong message. And the message I need to send right now is one of repentance and contrition. I need to let Graham know I’m sorry I crossed a line.
CJ: Oh you know . . . I rode this stationary bike to Brooklyn and back, uphill both ways, and basically bit my nails to the quick in an epic stress fest.
Graham: You’re not a nail-biter. Also, impressive cardio, Ceej.
CJ: You’re right. I’m not normally a nail-biter. But I’m clearly not walking the straight and narrow path today. I’ve been worried that I overstepped and now you think I’m a crazy person . . .
Graham: Not any crazier than I thought you were yesterday.
I groan as I tug my buds out of my ears. Crazy. He’s confirmed that he thinks I’m crazy. I watch my sex ed plans go up in flames, fueled by the tinder of Graham’s and my forever damaged relationship. Biting my lip, I text—
CJ: I ruined our friendship, didn’t I?
Graham: No. Of course not.
CJ: You’re sure?
Graham: I’m sure. I’m glad you were honest with me. And that you trusted me enough to share something so personal.
CJ: Even though I held you hostage with my demands?
Graham: You’re a tough negotiator beneath that sweet exterior. But I’ve always known you were made of steel and sugar.
My lips press together. Steel and sugar. That’s not necessarily a bad combo, is it?
Graham: Seriously, you could never ruin our friendship. No matter what schemes you hatch up in your squirrel brain.
I wince, my stomach cratering. Embarrassment washes over me. My shoulders sag. He can deny it all he wants, but he clearly thinks I’m storing up psycho for the winter.
But before I can type something sufficiently relaxed-sounding to hide my shame, my phone pings again.
Graham: Meet me at Patio West at nine p.m. tomorrow. Be ready for lesson one.
“Holy shit,” I murmur, hand coming to cover my mouth. “Holy, holy, holy shit!” My hands are shaking so badly with excitement that it takes three tries to tap out my reply—See you there—and hit send.
Resisting the urge to thrust my arms into the air in a V for victory, I start pedaling, but inside I’m not cycling. I’m soaring, flying so high I can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face or keep giddy laughter from bubbling at my lips.
I’m finally going to lose it, the one thing I for sure don’t want to keep.
Goodbye, V card.
Chapter Six
Graham
I am on fire today.
It’s only ten, and I’ve already logged five miles on the Hudson River Greenway, solved a thorny supply issue with the production department halfway around the world, and answered all pressing emails from business partners.
That’s what a good old-fashioned five a.m. alarm and the prospect of taking care of my other favorite kind of business after-hours has done for me.
Add in a breakfast meeting with my finance team at the Parker Meridien that went swimmingly, and I’d like to bottle this energy and take a hit whenever I’m losing focus.
I return to the office on Fifty-Sixth, stabbing the elevator button for the twenty-fifth floor and whistling a happy tune.
Eleven more hours till school starts.
I’ve never been more excited to go to class.
Then again, I’ve never been this kind of teacher, and I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy every single second of tutoring CJ one-on-one.
As the elevator chugs upward, my phone buzzes with a text. I grab it quickly, in case it’s CJ. But my jaw clenches when I see the name.
I mutter a curse, but then take a deep, fueling breath as I open Lucy’s message. The last time I saw her, the day I broke things off, she’d asked if she could move in with me instead. Can you say whiplash? First, we’d been dating one month. No way did I want her to move in. Second, I wanted to end the relationship—that’s what “this isn’t working for me” means.
I brace myself for her note, hoping it’s not another plane ticket to fly out of town with her, or some comment about what I was wearing on the running path the other morning, since I’ve noticed her a few times on the greenway when she was ne
ver a runner before.
Lucy: Thinking of you and that scarf you said you wanted to use on me.
I give my phone the side-eye. What is she talking about? We never discussed a scarf, and I don’t have time for mind games. But I can’t just keep hoping she’ll leave me the hell alone.
I need to send a very clear message.
Graham: Please stop texting me. And don’t attempt to contact me again.
I erase her text. I delete her contact info. Then I hit delete on Lucy’s space in my brain.
Done.
Gone.
Washed clean.
While my messages are open, I tap out a quick note to my parents, asking if Mom wasted Dad on the tennis court again today. Her quick reply—Of course. Three-love. Booyah!—makes me smile. Their condo, their tennis lessons, the fun they’re having after decades of killing themselves in dead-end jobs—that’s why I’ve worked my ass off since I was a kid with my first paper route. Even on the day the bank kicked my family out of our house years ago, I knew the future was going to be brighter. Because I would make it brighter. I was determined to get out and make good for all of us.
And I did. My parents love their condo in West Palm Beach, and every day I’m glad I bought it for them before putting the down payment on my own NYC apartment.
The elevator dings, and the doors whoosh open on my floor, on the kingdom I built from the ground up. I say hello to the receptionist, then stride through the work space, flashing smiles and quick hellos to my team on the way to my corner office.
When I reach the door, a voice calls out. “Did you see that penalty last night?”
I swivel around, my eyes widening, my disgust over the ridiculous penalty against my Portland Badgers returning in full force. “It was highway robbery,” I say to Brian, a rising marketing star at the company and a rabid hockey fan, too.
He shakes his head, his blue eyes narrowing as he walks toward me. “I’m telling you, the refs hate our guys because we’re too damn good.”
“Oh, to be hated for being amazing. Something we should all aspire to.” I glance at my watch. “Hey, you want to review the PowerPoint for next week?”
Marketing the new lines is critical to my plans for the company. In this fast-moving industry, we need to be spot-on with communicating to consumers. But in a sexy, delicious way.
“Absolutely. Let’s make it amazing.”
“Let’s make it so damn good the board will be blown away,” I agree.
“That’s the only way to treat a board.”
I push open the door for my office and let Brian head in first. He joined the company a few years ago, a newly minted MBA, and he’s eager as a Boy Scout. He has a fresh-faced go-getter attitude as well as a tenacious work ethic that I dig.
We roll up our sleeves and tackle the presentation I need to make to the board next week, refining a few slides to make it even better. When we’re done, I hold up a hand to high-five. “This is like a hat trick in the Stanley Cup Final.”
“You know it,” he says, laughing as he drags a hand through his brown hair.
But then I have to ask myself if it is.
It’s almost there, but . . .
I lean back on my leather couch, thinking.
My mind snags on something from my emails earlier today. One of our partners wanted to see if they could move up the launch of a new line of candy-colored corsets in time for the fall, a pre-holiday push, but the marketing still feels a little off. Have your cake and wear it, too is a cute slogan for the collection, but every model we’re using in the print campaign looks like she hasn’t eaten cake in at least seven years. Maybe eight. I would prefer the marketing package hit an inclusive note, to embrace all body sizes and all women, be they stick thin or curvy and full-figured. We’ve built our high-end brand on that message and can’t stray too far. Adored’s brand mystique has to remain top-notch.
I share my thought process with Brian, and he nods his agreement. “With a reshoot and a few positioning adjustments, we might be able to pull this off,” I say, a burst of excitement zipping through me, as it so often does when I feel the possibilities of what I can do in this business.
I started Adored for three reasons. One, I wanted to build a company I loved from the ground up, applying all my business acumen to the sole goal of making my venture so wildly successful that no one in my family would have to worry about money ever again.
I’ve checked that off.
Two, I fucking adore women, especially in lingerie, and particularly when lingerie is doing its job making them feel sexy and beautiful.
And three, I wanted to work with my best friend. We accomplished that, and part of me wants to fight to keep Adored independent because of Sean. I know he would have wanted that, too.
This presentation on the new line will be key to getting the board excited about my vision for Adored, so they can see that selling out is not an option.
After we’ve finished laying out a plan for campaign adjustments and Brian leaves, I check the clock, pleased that it’s now T-minus seven hours till launch. I’m ready to give myself an A-plus for kicking ass at the office today. Maybe women and work haven’t been meshing for me lately, but hell, it sure seems that night school is better than an iced coffee for focus.
Note to self: if you ever change careers, consider being a sex tutor. It streamlines the focus and keeps your dick in the game.
As the clock ticks past three, I review the design for some new panties. Tilting my head, I study the way the lace skims high on the thighs of the model. How it slides between her legs. How there’s just enough of a pattern to leave most of what’s underneath to the imagination.
And my imagination goes to CJ.
What does she wear under those cute T-shirts? What does she sleep in? I’m imagining her in bed in her snug apartment in the Meatpacking District, sliding under the covers in a burgundy baby doll, dark against her pale skin. It’d ride up to her belly, revealing kissable flesh.
A barely audible groan escapes my throat. Thank fuck my door is closed because I’m staring at the screen as if it’s the best porn reel around.
But it’s not the panties on the screen that do it for me.
It’s the movie in my mind.
I’m undressing CJ, discovering she wears a pale-blue push-up bra with flowers embroidered into it, the demi cups ensuring her tits spill over the tops. I’m seeing a pair of matching panties with delicate patterns and sheer lace.
In the lingerie business, you learn that every woman is an individual when it comes to her sensuality. Some want to lead with bold animal prints, others crave delicate flowers. Some love unapologetic, make-no-mistake-what’s-on-my-mind black, while others covet bright, fiery red or soft, pale pink.
I know what I would like to see CJ in, but I also want to learn how she sees herself.
What does she slide on beneath her clothes to make her feel confident and beautiful? What brings out her seductive side? Has she even figured out the power of a well-chosen panty and bra set?
Maybe that’s something I can help her with, too, and give myself something to look forward to in the process.
I pick up the phone and arrange for a special delivery.
Chapter Seven
CJ
This could be it. The night everything changes. The night I start the journey from Behind the Sex Curve to Head of the Fucking Class.
Assuming, of course, that the gift box Graham had sent to my apartment means what I think it means.
“Sexy panties in a fancy gift box mean exactly what you think they mean, genius,” I murmur to my reflection in my compact as my cabbie whizzes down Sixth Avenue, weaving in and out of traffic in a way that would give me a heart attack if I made the mistake of looking out the window. “This is it. Time to get your head in the game and think positive, ready-to-pounce thoughts.”
Oh God . . . ready-to-pounce thoughts.
I thought I was ready—I’m the one who put this kinky bargain on the
table, for goodness sake—but now that my theory is about to become reality, I’m so nervous it feels like my tongue is trying to crawl down my throat and hide out in my stomach. I was expecting lesson one to be something tamer—a way to ease into this, like sinking into a pool of slightly too-hot water—but then there were panties.
And panties mean business.
“Let you out on this side?” the driver asks, motioning to the corner just ahead.
“Yes, th-that’s fine.” I fluff my hair, run my tongue over my front teeth, and snap my compact shut with a firm click before swiping my credit card and adding a healthy tip.
And then me, my black skirt that hits at the knees, and the black lace panties that reveal more of my butt than I’m pretty sure I’ve ever revealed to anyone are off to the races. The lace underwear isn’t a thong, but it doesn’t cover my cheeks, either. They cut halfway across my rear. Perhaps that means Graham is an ass man. The thought makes me simultaneously want to giggle and to hide my face behind my hands while I blush ruby red.
There’s also an embroidered butterfly on the semi-sheer front, right at the top by my hipbone. If I’m trying to read his panty selection like a mug of tea leaves, I guess that means he thinks I’m a butterfly. Hopefully he’s right, and I’m finally ready to emerge from my cocoon.
But I remind myself that I’m a business butterfly, and that breed keeps the heart separate from anything below the belt. I move faster down the street, shivering slightly at the chill in the night air, wrapping my arms around my silky pink blouse.
A few minutes later, after visiting the Starbucks bathroom a few doors down from the restaurant, because anxiety makes my microscopic bladder even more hyperactive, I’m stepping out of the elevator at Patio West.
The V Card Page 4
