Love in Lingerie

by Alessandra Torre

  My shoulders shudder against the door, and I come, breathing her name into the empty office.

  If my need was lingerie, it’d be blood-red, with lines that scream for attention.

  chapter 16

  Him

  When the doorbell chimes, it echoes through the house, bouncing off wood floors and glass, the tones catching my attention in the moment before I reach for the remote. I stand, running a hand through my hair, scratching an itch on the back of my head. I pull at the bottom of my T-shirt, stepping out of the media room and jogging down the house’s front staircase, the figure on my front porch manipulated by the poured glass. I hitch up my workout pants and pull open the door, blinking through the glare of the morning light. It takes a moment to recognize the man on my porch.

  “Stephen?” Worry shoots through me, my thoughts rocketing to my last call with Kate, a few hours earlier. She’d been on her way to the store; we’d talked about increasing shipping costs and whether she needed a freaking parakeet. I should have told her to be careful, to get off the phone, to watch her surroundings and get back home. I—

  “Everything is okay,” he reassures me, reading the alarm on my face. “I just came by to talk to you.”

  As quickly as the panic came, wariness replaces it. I can count the conversations I’ve had with this man on one hand, all of them in the presence of Kate. There is no good reason for him to be at my home, on a Sunday morning, without her. I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms, sizing him up, my protective instincts on full alert. He’s my size, but less fit, his frame less muscular, the sort that looks good in a tux but gaunt in a bathing suit. In a fight, I would demolish him—not that he would go toe-to-toe with me. He’s too nice for that—too respectful, too friendly. He would adopt kittens but lacks the sharp edge to haul a woman to his side, then fuck her over the trunk of his car. My eyes move past him and to my new truck, its tailgate down, the vehicle blocking my garage, and the sleek collection of testosterone inside. I’d have her against its door, or sitting on that tailgate, her clothes ripping on its rivets and hinges, the cool metal against her skin, her hands trembling against its surfaces, her nails scratching its wax.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you.” He clasps his hand, one palm over the other, and gives a nervous smile. “I’m sorry for not calling first. I…” he spreads his hands, “I’m running out of time.”

  Running out of time. I think of Marks Lingerie’s fourth year, the two-million-dollar loan I secured with a trio of Italians who’d made my terms of repayment very clear. I had sweated through every minute of that year, through every check I’d written them, until their principal and interest had been paid in full. Maybe that’s what this is about. My eyes flick to the nervous twitch of his gaze, and the possibility of his insolvency encourages me. “What do you need?” I ask.

  He glances past my shoulder, hinting at his desire to be invited in. I don’t move, my eyebrows raising, and wait for his response.

  “Well.” Those fucking hands spread again, and he looks at them as if they hold something, maybe the words that he needs. He looks back at me. “I know that Kate and you are close. Best friends.”

  Best friends. It’s a title that should be reserved for teenage girls, not two people who can barely keep their hands off each other. My lip curls but I say nothing. Is this still about a loan? My body tenses at the idea that Kate may somehow be involved, that she might be in some danger as a result of his incapability to manage money. “Get to the point.” I grit out the words, barely able to stop myself from reaching forward and yanking the damn message from his throat.

  “Oh.” He collects himself, then looks up. “Ah … I.” He pauses, then starts over. “Tomorrow night, I’m planning to propose. There’s an office party I am hosting—I’m going to do it afterward. Since her father is no longer living, I thought I would ask for your blessing. I mean, I know it’s a bit outdated, but you’re like a brother to her.”

  Like a brother to her

  The rage ripples out, taking my thoughts and spewing them out, my words terse and deadly, barbs of truth that stab across the space. “I’m not like a brother to her. A brother wouldn’t think about bending her over my desk every time she walks into my office. A brother wouldn’t check out the curves of her ass every time she turns away.”

  The smile drops from his face. What an idiot. Does he not know her impact? The weight of her smile, her laugh, her challenge? Doesn’t he understand that it’s impossible to know her and not love her? His hands, those patty-cake-palms, clench into fists, and I hope to God he is about to swing at me.

  “What the fuck did you just say?” The man steps forward, and I push off the doorway, coming to my full height and meeting his glare full-on.

  “You heard me. Now get the fuck off my property before I embarrass you.”

  She will be mad. Hell, she’ll be furious. But I’ll be damned if anyone thinks I’m like a brother to her. A brother. My muscles tighten, and I come off the stoop and toward Stephen, pushing my shirt sleeves up, enjoying the rush of blood in my veins. A fight, that’s what we need, the ability to take this back to caveman days and finish it. I clench my fists, and he steps back, his hands raising, his slick dress shoes moving down one step, then a second. He turns toward his Audi, his eyes warily staying on me. “I’m marrying her,” he promises me, and the headlights of his car flash as he unlocks the doors.

  “You’re not marrying her,” I disagree, and I stop, watching him nearly scurry around the hood of the car. “You won’t even be engaged to her.”

  The words roll out confidently, but they aren’t mine to give. I watch him peel out of my circular drive, his window coming down, one cowardly middle finger raised in my direction, and panic sweeps through me.

  All Sunday, I wait for her call, for her car to screech through my driveway, for her scream to echo through my home. By Sunday night, I’m convinced he hasn’t told her. By Monday afternoon, I’m almost at ease, my mind halfway through a clusterfuck of a marketing plan when my office door slams open, the handle punching a hole in the plaster, the artwork clattering against the wall.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I’ve never seen her so mad, her body literally shaking before me. I set down the folder and meet her eyes.

  “Good afternoon, Kate. I was just reviewing—”

  “Stop playing games and answer me.”

  “Nothing is wrong with me.” I speak in the tone that would put a submissive to their knees. She doesn’t even flinch.

  “You told Stephen you wanted to fuck me?!”

  “I do want to fuck you. I think we’ve all been clear on that for quite a while now.”

  She digs her fingers into her forehead, her eyes pinching shut. “I know you’re not this stupid, Trey. I know you understand simple fucking society and how much what you just did severely fucks my relationship.”

  “You didn’t have a relationship,” I interrupt. “You had a guy who wanted a goddamn trophy wife. He came to my home and tried to tell me what our relationship is like. He told me that I am like a brother to you.” I stand, and if this desk wasn’t between us, I’d have her pressed so closely against me that she’d feel my need. “Do you think of me like a brother, Kate?”

  She clenches her fists and looks away, as if there is a fucking answer in my potted plant. “I like working for you. I’m not prepared to leave Marks, but I can’t—”

  “I removed an idiot from an equation,” I grit out. “Stop thinking about that and focus on my goddamn question. Do you think of me as a brother?” Fuck the desk. I walk around it and spin her to face me, pinning her back against the oak, my feet on either side of hers, my thighs hugging the rigid line of her legs. This close, I can feel her tremble. I pull up her chin and relish the fight in her eyes.

  “I wouldn’t want to kill my brother,” she whispers.

  “You wouldn’t want to fuck him either,” the words slip quietly out, and her eyes widen, just a
hair, at their receipt. God, I am in love with this woman. The force of it yanks at my foundation. My hand softens at her chin and slides down the front of her sweater, coming to rest on her hips, my fingers biting into the fabric as I pull her against me. “Tell me you want to fuck me, Kate.”

  She shakes her head minutely. “I don’t.”

  I lean forward, my lips gently brushing over her ear and down the hollows of her neck, my control wavering and I steal a kiss, just a few, along the way. I feel her shift in response, the work of her thighs against each other, the arch of her into me, her tells as loud as a scream. God, the things I could give her. The ways I could please her. I travel back along her neck and pause at her ear. “Tell me Kate. Give me this one fucking thing so I can go home, wrap my hand around my cock, and picture every filthy thing I want to do to you. Do you want to fuck me?”

  She puts a hand on my chest, and I stop, the bite of my grip loosening, the breath in my throat stalling. I lift my mouth away from her ear and look into those eyes.

  “You didn’t have to say anything to him,” she whispers. “I would have said no. It wasn’t your fight. I’m not yours to fight over.”

  It should make me happy, but it feels like a breakup.

  She steps back, and a part of me dies. “Wanting to fuck you has never been the problem.”

  I don’t know how she can look into my eyes so calmly when she says it. I don’t know how, when she turns and walks away, she doesn’t stumble.

  I watch her leave, and I’ve never felt so vulnerable, so lost.

  If our relationship was lingerie, it’d be fur-lined handcuffs, latched around you, the key lost, escape impossible.

  Her

  When I broke up with Craig, it was clean and neat. With Stephen, our parting was rough, the result of a fight, one where he’d called me names and accused me of cheating, his face red, spittle flying. I had started out explaining, trying to explain the nature of my friendship with Trey, how he didn’t mean what he’d said, how even if there had been moments of attraction it had never gone anywhere. All of those words had stopped in the face of complete hysteria—the kind, conservative man I’d dated for a year was gone, this new Stephen ripping a brass sconce out of the wall, then smashing a Queen Anne chair through the French doors. I’d shut my mouth and fled through the front door, all of my excuses and explanations worthless in the presence of that. I got in my car and ignored his calls, his voicemails full of venom and hatred, a combination that only cemented my decision.

  Screw my attraction to Trey. Screw the inappropriate things he said. That night, I sent Stephen a short text breaking up with him for one reason: he was insane. Maybe his display of rage was out of love, a reckless passion he had hidden for the last twelve months. But it is unacceptable for him to behave that way, to handle anything that way, much less a few careless words Trey had tossed his way.

  Trey is my new problem. When I’d left Stephen’s house and went straight to the office, I was half-furious with Trey for causing it all, half-emotional from the fight with Stephen. Confronting Trey hadn’t helped, his confident declarations catching me off guard, my system too raw to handle the dark look in his eyes, the soft touch of his lips against my throat, the brush of his fingertips and beg of his voice.

  “Tell me you want to fuck me, Kate.”

  I close my eyes and wonder how I will ever face him again.

  “You know you guys can’t go back to being friends now.” Jess digs out a bit of baby food and holds it out to Skylar, who clamps her mouth shut and looks away.

  I sprinkle glitter over a line of glue and say nothing. “Wanting to fuck you has never been the problem.” Had I actually said that? Had I told Trey that I wanted to fuck him? My mind hurts just thinking about the repercussions. I turn the cardboard page on its side and tap the excess glitter off, Jenna squealing with pleasure at the shimmery result. “He’s in New York,” I say. “So at least I don’t have to see him this week.”

  “But you’ve talked to him.”

  “Yes.” Of course we’ve talked. It’s habit to call him on my morning drive in. Fifteen decisions a day go smoother when discussed with him. There is no “running of Marks Lingerie” without both of us, hand-in-hand, pushing it forward. “But on the phone … I don’t know. It’s different. It’s easier.”

  “Because you can’t rip each other’s clothes off?” She gets up and moves to the fridge.

  I eye Jenna’s face, who blinks at me in the innocent way of a child. “Let’s talk about it later.”

  Jess snorts. “Jenna, go upstairs and play.” Jenna’s chair squeaks against the tile and she is gone, her bright blue cowboy boots thudding across the kitchen and up the stairs with the thundering sound of a grown man. I watch Jess settle back in her chair, pulling the high chair closer.

  “He flies back from New York on Tuesday afternoon,” I say. “He wants me to come over for dinner, to catch up on everything he’s missed.”

  Jess turns, her eyes wide. “Tell me you’re going to finally do it. This is it! This is the moment!” She wipes off her hands and reaches for the house phone. “I’m going to call Mom.”

  “Stop.” I grab the cordless handset off the table, tucking it in between my legs. “I’m not having sex with him. I’ll be in Stage 9 period territory on Tuesday.”

  “Ugh.” She gives up on her reach of the phone and turns back to Skylar. “Hey, maybe it’s a good thing.”

  “It’s a great thing.” It’s the only reason I agreed to come over. Nothing like a giant maxi pad to guarantee my virtue. “But it doesn’t matter. He won’t make a move.” I don’t mean for the words to come out glum, but they do. Every part of me, from my libido to my voice, is confused. Should I be happy? Mad? Worried? I pick up a colored pencil and draw a face on the page. Skinny nose. Cartoon eyes. Long lashes. I pick up a red pencil and hover above the blank space where a mouth should go. Finally, I draw a flat line, sketching lips around it that press together in a … I pull back the pencil and examine the sketch. A constipated expression. I sigh, and attempt to correct the lips into a smile, the ending result clownish.

  “What makes you think he won’t make a move?”

  “He’s had time to think about it. I think the Stephen conversation was a gut reaction for him, something he wasn’t expecting and instinctively responded to. And then Stephen told me, and I came to him, and it sort of snowballed from there.” I add a neck and jaw, then pick up a new pencil and add thick black hair. “When he comes back into town, he’ll be back to normal. Under control.” I say flatly.

  “Which is … a good thing?” Jess asks. “I’m so confused by what you want.”

  “Yeah.” I stare at the artwork critically. “Me too.”

  His Tuesday night flight is delayed, nixing our dinner plans. Wednesday, I suffer through two morning meetings, and finally connect with him in the conference room.

  “You know, I did you a favor.” Trey taps the model on the elbow. “Turn around please.”

  “Did me a favor?” I look up from the silk fabric in my hands, watching as he draws a careful line across the model’s back, sketching out the lines of a bustier that he wants us to design. It’s Wishful Wednesday, a monthly tradition on the second Wednesday of each month. We bring in a dozen models and all of the designers, giving everyone free reign with washable markers and a couple hundred material swatches. “With what?”

  “Stephen. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be sampling wedding cake right now and picking up his dry cleaning.”

  “I would not.” I step beside him and eye the model. “That’s too low. It won’t stay up.”

  “But it looks sexy.”

  “It’s not going to be functional.”

  “Tricia,” he drawls. “Will you please get Kate in line? She’s ruining all of my fun.”

  Tricia, the model I was working on, giggles. I glare at her. “Don’t. You’ll encourage him.” I toss the robe to her. “Put that on for me.”
>
  “God, you’re bossy.” He looks up at the busty blonde before him. “No wonder they all request me.”

  “No one requests anyone,” I gripe, wincing as he draws a criss-cross of straps that no woman will be able to get into without help. Tricia clicks her tongue at me and I try to refocus, grabbing a handful of straight pins and moving toward her.

  “She was going to marry a boring asshole,” he stage-whispers, and I smile despite myself, grateful that we are back to normal, as normal as the two of us can be.

  “I wasn’t going to marry the guy,” I call out loudly, pulling the silk tight across her shoulders and examining the lay of it. “Now, please shut up and focus on your work.”

  “I’m done.” His voice is in my ear, so close that I flinch, the straight pins almost poking Tricia, who gives me a worried look. He straightens with a mischievous smile, and I hurl one of the pins in his general direction. “Now stop wasting time and dream up something incredible. I’m going to go pick up lunch for everyone.”

  I try to glare at him, but I can’t.

  chapter 17

  Her

  I relax back in one of his chairs, my leg hanging over the arm, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, and suck a bit of soy sauce off of one finger. On the coffee table before us, a sea of styrofoam containers sit, half-eaten sushi rolls and wasabi piles dotting the white canvases. “You ordered too much,” I decide.

  “The night’s not over yet.” He swipes a piece of salmon and stands, walking over to the window and peering out. “Want to go sit outside?”

  “No.” I stretch out my stomach, exhausted at just the thought of moving. “Entertain me from here.”

  “Hmmm…” He turns away from the window and raises one wicked eyebrow. “That sounds fun.”