Love in Lingerie(10)
I yield, glumly handing over my car keys. “In the trunk, on the left side, there are two big ziplock bags. Grab the one labeled ‘Craig’.”
He nods. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returns, he hands over the bag, our fingers brushing. I turn away, open the bag above the kitchen counter, and pull out the clothes, an emergency set that Craig had insisted, when we’d first started dating, that we carry in our cars. As he likes to preach, it never hurts to have a spare set of clothes. It’s the same reason why our trunks have bottled water and granola bars, first aid kits and flare guns. Once we marry and move to a house, we will have a generator and a storm cellar, fire evacuation plans and enough canned food to get us through a month-long famine. I hold out the clothes. “Here. I can’t promise they’ll fit.”
Trey takes the clothes—a new pair of Wrangler jeans, boxer briefs, and a T-shirt. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”
“Sure.” I point to the bathroom. “There are towels underneath the sink. Feel free to use the shampoo and soap that’s in there.”
He goes. The bathroom door shuts and I try not to think about his robe dropping, and Trey Marks standing, fully naked in the space.
I’ve worked for Trey for two months now. Long enough that I feel comfortable around him, long enough that I no longer flinch when he comes near me. When we bump against each other, when he leans over my desk and examines documents, I no longer hold my breath, or sneak an illicit sniff of his cologne. He treats me with a sort of wary respect, and I’ve grown confident enough to let my opinions fly, sometimes without an appropriate filter or level of respect. It’s not that I don’t respect him, it’s just that I sometimes forget my place, overly empowered by my position. At Lavern & Lilly, I made decisions, and then waited to be admonished or overruled. At Marks Lingerie, he only watches, his eyes following my every move, my freedom eerie in its entirety. He promised me control over the design team, and he has delivered on that promise. It hasn’t stopped his temper from flaring, or arguments erupting between us. In the last two months, there have been plenty of both. I was meeting someone for sex. There is a whine of water pressure, and the shower turns off.
I clean off the coffee table and move the remote near his pillow. I consider it, then move it back to the coffee table, lining it up this month’s issue of Vogue. I should be tired. The last time I was up this late was before Fashion Week, and I fell asleep mid-sketch. It wasn’t a graceful slump either. I face-planted into the desk, my hand getting caught in between my body and the desk, my ring finger bending the wrong way. I didn’t even wake up from the pain. I woke up an hour later, the imprint of a stapler against my cheek, and when I saw the right angle of my finger, I passed out from the sudden brutality of it. That overreaction gave me a black eye, and caused poor Craig a hundred glares.
The bathroom door opens, and I turn. “Oh my God.” I lift a hand to my mouth to cover up my grin. “You look…”
“Sexy.” He fills in, then cocks his head, as if he can tell he guessed wrong. “Irresistible? Rugged?” He steps forward. “Wait, I got this. Drop—”
“Ridiculous,” I interrupt. “And … big.” Craig would have been appalled at such a kindergarten word, but it fits. He looks like a giant trying to wear a mortal’s clothing, the boxer briefs skin-tight, the T-shirt stretched across his chest and ending halfway down his abs. I swallow.
His eyes twinkle. “Why, thank you.” He shrugs. “I have been told that, on several occasions.”
“Not that…” I blush. “You know what I meant.” But he is big. The underwear that fit Craig so easily are tight around his thighs, the waistband riding low enough on his hips to show me those perfect angled cuts. And the bulge they point to … I turn my back to him and grab a few pillows off the couch, moving them to a basket beside my chair.
“Speaking of size, how big is your fiancé?” I hear a pop of fabric and look back to see him pulling off the T-shirt, his face covered by the white fabric.
I love Craig, I do. It’s been a great two years. We are consistently compatible. I wear his grandmother’s ring, and get along with his parents. Soon we will get married, and I will have his babies, and we will live out the rest of our lives in orderly, organized, and well-prepared fashion. All that aside, I can’t control myself from stealing one moment, one literal second, and enjoying the beauty that is my boss. It’s criminal that God would pair his face with those notches of abs, a neat row of thick muscles that pop and slide under his tan skin. I imagine what it would feel like to run my hand across them, maybe even down them. Would he step closer if I slid my palm inside of those boxer-briefs? Would his eyes close if I wrapped my hand around his cock?
The T-shirt lifts higher and I turn my head back to the basket, my breath hissing through my teeth as I fight to keep from looking at him.
“Well?” He steps closer, and in my peripheral vision, I can see him wad the shirt into a ball.
“What?” I straighten, and push hair away from my face. I am fine. He is going to bed. Nothing is going to happen.
“Your fiancé. Clark? How big of a guy is he?”
“His name is Craig.” I move past him and check the thermostat, turning it a few degrees cooler. “He’s average.” Average? Craig would be offended by the term. Then again, I am a wee bit offended from his reaction to my Mensa performance.