by Linda Verji
“What do you think about this one?” Olivia held up a yellow letter jacket with a large black H patched on its left side.
Eyeing it, Marcel groaned. “Can’t we find me something that’s a little less loud? Like blue. Blue is a good color.”
“But blue will wash you out. I don’t want you to be a washed out Hardy Boy.” She tilted her neck, widened her eyes and stuck out her lower lip, giving him her puppy dog look. “Pleeease.”
Lips twitching in a reluctant smile, he sighed. “Fine. Let me try it.”
She held out the jacket with a giggle. Her actions had the effect of drawing his attention to her dress. Trust Olivia to be the only woman who could make white look like sin. As soon as they’d met today, he’d noticed that her white sundress was unusually long. Olivia in a floor-length dress with voluminous skirts that hid her curves?
The end of the world was here, pigs were flying and hell had frozen over.
Granted the white was a perfect contrast to her caramel skin, and the dress’s deep v-neck lace front flaunted her voluptuous cleavage. But still, floor-length? Then she’d turned, and he’d almost chocked on his tongue. The back of that dress…
Shoving the wickedly delicious image to the back of his mind, Marcel shrugged out of his navy suit jacket. He pushed his arms through the yellow jacket and smoothed it over his chest.
Clapping, Olivia offered him a wide grin. “See. You look great. Doesn’t he, Jan?”
Their attendant, a tall, skinny, brown-haired man in his thirties nodded. “The jacket fits him perfectly.”
Still grinning, Olivia said, “Now, let’s find you a shirt and bowtie.”
“No need. I can find something in my closet,” Marcel rushed in quickly lest Olivia stick him in a luminous pink shirt and orange bowtie.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure.” His voice brooked no argument.
“Okay, my turn.” Olivia turned her attention to Jan. “I’m looking for something Irene Adler-ish.”
“The woman from Sherlock Holmes?” Jan asked. When she nodded, he tapped his chin thoughtfully for a moment. “Which Irene do you want? Late nineteenth century, BBC Sherlock, Rachel McAdam’s Irene, Elementary…”
“Let’s go old-school,” she suggested. “Nineteenth century.”
Jan nodded briskly. “This way. I think I might have something.”
Olivia whirled to follow Jan, giving Marcel another tormenting display of the back of her dress. Apart from the thin straps running across her shoulder blades to her neck, her back was completely bare to his scrutiny. Her braids were coiled in a high bun giving him a tantalizing view from the long column of her neck, down her spine to her tapered waist.
All that naked skin was temptation personified. In the hour since they’d met he’d wondered more than once how it would feel to place his lips on her neck then kiss his way down. He’d start with the word tattoo on her neck; the one that said ‘only the strong survive’. Then he’d flick his tongue down her upper arm, tracing the dragon there and the butterflies it was blowing fire at. He’d skim his way past her tattoos to her spine. No doubt her skin would taste as delicious as her kisses.
But touching his lips to her skin wouldn’t be enough. He’d need to touch too. Strip her of that seductive dress and reveal the sexy body underneath. He’d seen enough of her during workout to know that she had a body made for loving. How wonderful it would feel to have her completely naked in his arms, to finally have her long legs wrapped around him and his cock inside…
“What do you think?” Olivia’s voice yanked him out of his erotic daydreams.
Marcel hadn’t even noticed that they’d stopped in front of a section boldly labeled Victorian/Edwardian Era. Corsets, silk dresses, linen suits, cage crinolines, petticoats, top hats, bonnets, canes, pistols and other antique paraphernalia lined the section in a stunning display of the era.
Staring at him expectantly and holding up a peach-colored, linen skirt, Olivia repeated, “What do you think?”
Mentally shaking his head to disperse the remnants of his sexy imaginings, he peered at the skirt, then shrugged. “It’s nice.”
“How can you say it’s nice if you haven’t even seen it on me?” she protested.
“Then why did you ask me what I thought?” He chuckled at her contrariness.
“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll try it then you can tell me what you think.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m not your mama.” She skated past him on her way into the dressing room. Pushing the red curtain aside, she said over her shoulder, “And don’t peek in.”
“Please,” Marcel scoffed as he settled on the loveseat near the dressing room. “As if you have anything I want to see.”
While she changed, he took out his phone and went through the emails that had accumulated in his office inbox while he was away. Some minutes later Olivia came out wearing the ankle-length skirt and a matching jacket with shoulder pads.
Marcel immediately burst into laughter. “You look like an army reject.”
“Hater!” Olivia twirled in front of the mirror. “I look great. Like a feminist with a heart of peach.”
“No, like a feminist with no sense of style.” He shook his head. “Try something else.”
Olivia stuck her tongue out at him but reached for another outfit from the mountains of fabric draped on Jan’s arms. She went back in. After a few seconds, she called out, “Jan, could you come help me with this?”
Marcel immediately sat up in his chair. Why the hell was she calling another man into the dressing room when she had him? He stared daggers at Jan’s back as the brown-haired man pushed his way into the dressing room.
From somewhere inside the alcove, Olivia mumbled, “I don’t know where this goes.”
“This is supposed to go…” Jan rumbled on in between the ruffling of fabric. What the hell were they doing in there? Marcel craned his neck, trying to see into the dressing room, but the drape was firmly in place. Short of pushing it aside himself, there was no seeing inside. Marcel was about to shove the curtain out of the way when Jan emerged, and Olivia followed seconds later.
Her outfit was nothing short of ridiculous. The fitted top of the green dress was okay, but the bottom that was… off. The skirt jutted out at a sharp ninety degree angle from her waist stopping a substantial distance away from her ass. She looked like she was hiding a couple of toddlers beneath the ridiculous house of petticoats behind her.
“What the hell, Livy?” Marcel said through amused chortles.
“I know right?” She joined in his laughter as she stared at the appendage on her ass. The thing was so huge and out there, she didn’t even have to turn to see it.
“I’ll have you know bustles were very popular back then,” Jan interjected, sounding vaguely offended. “Everyone woman wore them.”
“And it’s very pretty,” Olivia soothed, even though her mouth still twitched with restrained humor. Guiding Jan back to the racks of clothes, she suggested, “But maybe something with less metal underneath it would work better. The party’s at a very small house and I don’t want to take up all the space.”
Slightly mollified, Jan picked another outfit for her.
When Lex had told Marcel that Olivia was a shopping nightmare and that he’d rather slit his wrists than shop with her, Marcel had thought he was playing. But when an hour later, she still hadn’t chosen something, Marcel began to think there was some merit to the argument.
“Livy, you’ll be late for your class,” he yelled out.
“What?” Her panicked exclamation wafted from the dressing room. There was some rustling then she kissed her teeth. “No, I’m not. It’s just three.”
“Liiivy,” he groaned, closing his eyes and leaning back into the loveseat. “We’ve been here for two hours.”
Her answering laugh was low husky and so seductive; but it had nothing on the next outfit she stepped out in. “What do you think of this?”
Fuck. Marcel’s jaw nearly dropped when he saw the costume she was wearing. The navy corset fitted over her torso like a second skin emphasizing her tiny waist and her voluptuous breasts. Her tits peeked over the top lusciously, subtly bouncing when she moved. It looked like they would pop out of the fabric if she even coughed. Would her nipples be long and suckable or tiny, brown bite-sized tips? He would give up a year’s paycheck for a chance to find out.
The ruffled skirt beneath the corset was so short it only came to the top of her thighs revealing the unending length of her legs. He was so glad he was seated because the revelation of all that flesh was like a punch to his gut; a punch of pure lust. Blood raced from his brain and straight to his cock.
“You like?” Olivia posed for him with her hand on her hip. Did her voice seem more sultry and smoky or was it the effect of the general cloudiness of his brain. Of course he liked.
“It’s alright,” he somehow managed to cough through his rough as sand-paper throat even as his gaze was glued to her thick thighs. He mentally begged, please turn.
As if she could hear him, she swiveled to face the mirror. “Really?”
The view from the back was magnificent with the ruffles falling just below her ass and accentuating its plumpness. This time his, “Really,” was even more strangled.
But she didn’t seem to notice the effect she was having on him. Tilting her neck and staring at her reflection, she ran her hands over the corset in smooth strokes that had Marcel wishing he was the one stroking her torso. Her tone was doubtful as she said, “It looks kind of hooker-ish.”
If hookers in the eighteen eighties were dressing like these, he had no doubt that many a man had willing strayed into temptation. Marcel couldn’t let her go to Thane’s party looking like that. Men would fall by her feet like flies. Hell, he was lucky he hadn’t fallen on his face yet. His tone determined, he agreed, “Probably.”
“You’re right.” She nodded. “Lex probably wants a more sedate Irene Adler.”
“I’m sure he does.” He took his first real breath when the dressing room curtain fell behind her, hiding him from his view.
Fortunately the next set of outfits she tried were less sexy and flamboyant. She finally settled on a wine red dress with a long fitted bodice, buttons to her chin, sleeves to her wrist and skirt to her vintage pumps. The outfit was demure and very un-Olivia like but he had to admit, she did look good in it. Add in the horse whip and the vintage hat she’d purchased, and she looked like a strict Victorian school-teacher who moonlighted as a dominatrix.
“We’re also looking for a Sherlock Holmes costume,” Olivia explained to the store owner once she’d chosen her outfit. “Think a five foot nine man, waist thirty four who doesn’t want something too tight,” she recited Lex’s measurements.
Marcel looked on with restrained annoyance as she and Jan searched for a costume for Lex. Marcel would’ve preferred to be her Sherlock, or she his Nancy Drew. But she hadn’t even offered him the part. But, he supposed, this was the price of being her friend, not her man. He didn’t warrant priority because Lex had been there first.
Once they’d settled on an appropriate costume, they lugged their rentals to the counter by the door. As the cashier keyed in the costs, Olivia reached for her purse. But before she could pay, Marcel whipped out his black card.
“You don’t have to do that?” Olivia protested.
“The man always pays.”
Her eyes lit up in amusement. “You do realize those are just costumes, right? We’re still in twenty fifteen.”
“Okay then-” Marcel started to put his card back into his wallet but before he could Olivia plucked it from his fingers.
“Boy, please.”
He shook his head and laughed. Trying to figure out Olivia was like trying to solve the Hodge conjecture. Impossible. Payment made, the two friends left Broken Wand and headed down to the mall’s basement. Olivia’s phone beeped while they were in the elevator. The moment she glanced at the screen, she kissed her teeth and tossed the phone back into her purse.
“What?” Marcel asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Your friend.”
Tay was still calling her? Anger mixed in with a healthy dose of possessiveness rolled in the pit of Marcel’s stomach. His instinct was to call Tay and demand he leave Olivia alone. But logic intervened. He had no right to interfere in whatever was going on between the two. After all he wasn’t her man.
Swallowing the lump of rage at the back of his throat, he walked Olivia to her car in silence. As she opened the driver’s door, she asked, “Are you coming for training today?”
“I am.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in the evening.” She leaned forward to embrace him. The brief brush of their bodies was enough to give him a whiff of her sweet, bubble-gum scent, and tempt him with the feel of her breasts pressed against him. The embrace eased his anger and lit his nerves with the beginnings of arousal. But before he could sink into it, she stepped away leaving him craving for much, much more. “Bye.”
“Bye.” He watched her drive away, wistfulness, desire and frustration brimming beneath his closed expression.
Seven fifteen found Marcel at Body & Spirit, springing up and down in response to Olivia’s instructions.
“Eight push-ups,” she yelled out as she whirled between the gasping attendants. “Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Up, up, up to your mountain climbers. Eight, seven, six…”
Her class was a whirlwind of vigorous motion. Honestly, if it was any other person leading the class, Marcel would’ve taken a breather. His own regimen involved a comfortable run around his neighborhood and some weight lifting in his home gym. Nothing as forceful as this. But some part of him wanted to impress Olivia, show her what he was made of. Despite his burning lungs and protesting limbs, he pushed on.
After class, Olivia was immediately surrounded by clients. Marcel couldn’t help noting that a disproportionate number of them were men. It was obvious by their admiring glances that a few were interested in more than her fitness skills. The group of men slavering around Olivia sparked Marcel’s possessive instincts. Why the hell were they so close to her? And Nigel needed stop staring at her ass like that or he would soon be picking up his teeth from the floor.
What the hell? Marcel gave himself a mental head slap. What the hell was he doing? Was he actually jealous? He wanted to pretend he wasn’t but there was no denying the anger burning low in his belly. Annoyed with himself, Marcel steered clear of the circle of jerks and headed towards the showers. He probably should’ve left after his shower, but instead ended up at the reception waiting for Olivia.
When she came out from the ladies’ locker rooms, he was glad he’d waited. The white dress was back on and she looked sexy as ever. Despite Nigel immediately ambushing her by the reception counter, it was obvious she was not interested. Her eyes were on Marcel as was her beautiful smile. His ego mollified, Marcel lifted off the seat with a matching smile and headed their way.
“Hey,” he greeted them both, sidling next to Olivia and setting his palm on the small of her back.
“Hey,” they both returned. Nigel glanced at the possessive hand the other man had on Olivia’s waist then glanced upwards to meet Marcel’s eyes with an eyebrow raise.
Fully aware that Nigel had gotten the wrong message about their relationship and not in the least inclined to set him straight, Marcel gave him a hard-eyed glare. What?
Nigel shrugged and took a step back.
Completely clueless to the silent messages flying between the two men, Olivia told Nigel, “Let me think about your offer then I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.” Nigel nodded. “But trust me you’ll love working as a personal trainer.”
Once Nigel was gone, Marcel grabbed her gym bag. “Let me get this for you.”
“Aw, look at Marcel being a gentleman,” Olivia teased as she handed it to him. “I didn’t know you were capable.”
“
Tell you what, keep talking and I’ll make you carry yours and mine,” he threatened. Her response was a chuckle as she flounced towards the elevators. A smile tugging at the corners of his lips he followed her in. He hadn’t dated a woman this much fun since…
Wait, they weren’t dating.
The thought was enough to send his mood plunging. They weren’t dating and would never get a chance to do it. It was too bad because they were a perfect match. No - scratch that. Apparently they weren’t a match because, according to Olivia, he was a player. The ridiculousness of that statement!
As soon as the elevator door closed behind them, he confronted her, “Livy, do you really think I’m a player?”
“No,” she responded quickly. When he gave her a disbelieving look, she sighed. “Yes.”
“Why? What about me makes me such a player?”
“I don’t know.” She waved her hand dismissively. “The women who float in and out of your life.”
“That’s your definition of a player?” He gave her a disbelieving look. “Someone who enjoys the company of women? By your definition even you are a player. It’s not like you’re a virgin.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Really, Marcel?”
“I’m just saying.” He shrugged. “Players are guys who string women along. I’m not one of them. Every woman I sleep with knows exactly where I’m at. And when I need to be faithful, I can be faithful.”
“You don’t need to justify yourself to me,” Olivia pointed out. “It’s not like we’re dating.”
She was right! They weren’t dating, and he didn’t have to reassure her of his ability to be loyal to woman. But he wanted to. This time his frustration was even more acute. It pricked at his loyalty to Tay questioning it.
He had seen Olivia first, hadn’t he? Granted his false impression of her in the club had been all his fault, but Tay had stoked it with his lies. Furthermore Tay was married and, by his own admission, with Olivia just for the fun. He’d never intended for her to be more than a fling. She wasn’t really his woman. Why couldn’t Marcel date her?
