Love in Lingerie(32)

One of her hands moves, a tentative reach that runs along my right collarbone before settling on my chest. “And if it isn’t?” Her eyes dart to mine, and the fact that there’s insecurity in them breaks my heart.

“God, I hope it isn’t. I hope it’s terrible. It would make our lives so much easier.” I smile, and her eyes warm, and holy shit—this may actually happen. I wet my lips and say the one thing that may destroy it all.

“But I meant what I texted you, back in Vegas. It’s too risky.” I slide my hands off of her knees, my fingers memorizing the contours of her legs, the silky feel of the stockings. I step back and put my hands in my pockets before I make another mistake with them. “There’s too much—”

“At stake,” she finishes, her knees meeting, and she pushes off of the counter and down to the floor, gripping the edge for support. “Yeah, that sounds familiar.” She bends down and pulls on one heel, and then the other. “When do you leave for New York?”

“Tomorrow night.” I hesitate, second-guessing my next move. “Want to come?”

She shakes her head, reaching for her purse. This must be it, the end of her visit. I used to like the solace, the moment when I would step inside my home and hear NOTHING. Now, it only feels lonely.

She pauses next to me, on her way to the door. “We good?”

“Always.” I lean into her and she brushes her lips against my cheek. “Drive safe.”

“I will.” She squeezes my arm, and then, her heels clipping out of the kitchen, she is gone.

“We good?” If my answer had been lingerie, it’d have been a bustier. Deceptive as hell.





chapter 12

Her

I turn on the shower and unclip the garter belt, rolling the expensive hosiery down my legs and stepping out of my damp panties, leaving the pile of lingerie on the floor of my bathroom, the rest of my undressing done with less ceremony. I consider the suit, then toss both the jacket and the skirt in the direction of my bed. He’s right, it is ugly. And I’ll never be able to wear that skirt again without thinking of his pen pushing up the fabric, his hands so close behind it. Naked, I open up the door and step into the shower, closing my eyes as the hot water hits my skin.

I don’t know what to do with him. I’d almost begged him. I’d almost said I didn’t care about commitments and risks and had him take me to his bedroom right there.

Put your hands on the counter. Flat. Palms down. God, the places my mind had run. I could feel the heat of him when he had moved behind me, the brush of him against me. If he had knelt, had lifted my skirt and bared my ass, run his fingers along the Brazilian cut of my underwear, if he had dragged my panties to the side … I slide my hand down, to my swollen clit, and softly brush my fingers over it. Had he realized how wet I was? How badly I wanted him? Even now, I throb at the thought of it, the huskiness in his voice, the dominant way his hand had closed around my thigh.

“I’m going to slide my hand under here.” I rub a slow circle around my clit and reach for the handheld shower attachment. I flip the control and water pulsates from the head, a small groan falling from my lips as I press it between my legs, the hot water strumming across my clit, my legs tightening in response. I brace a hand against the tile wall, my eyes closing as I remember the look in his eyes when his hands had slid under my skirt, when his fingers had explored the edges of my panties, when his hand had cupped me, his gentle fingers pushing the damp fabric inside of me. All he had had to do was move the piece of fabric aside. One tiny movement. One curve of his digits, and I would have gripped his shoulders and sobbed out his name, promised him anything, and begged him for everything. Replace those fingers with his cock, and I would have sold him my soul.

“Open your legs, Kate. Uncross them.” I need him in an unnatural way. I need him to push apart my thighs and put his mouth on me. I need him to suck on my clit and tease me with his fingers; I need him to gather me against his chest and push his cock inside of me. I want to look down and see his bare cock, to watch it against my skin, the thrust of it, the tight clench of his abs, his hands on my hips, the burn in his eyes when he buries it fully. Just the thought of it makes my legs tremble, my hips thrust, and I grind against the shower head like a dog in heat. I bite my lip. Sometimes, with just a certain look, I can sense his arousal. That look always makes me think of his cock, thickening inside of his pants, growing stiff, the hard ridge of him pushing against the fabric. I tilt my hips forward, giving a sigh of pleasure as my legs nearly buckle, my orgasm close. I imagine him standing up from his desk, that look deepening, his hand pulling on his zipper, pulling out his cock.

“Open your legs before I pull them apart myself.” He had said that to me. My Trey. He had given that order, and I had spread my legs for him. Had he seen my panties? Had he seen the way that they stuck to me, the way that I had trembled? I imagine him stepping forward, his head tilting, eyes searching, his fingers pulling my panties to the side, and all of me, swollen and pink and wet. He would look up, and that look, that look in his eyes—I come from the idea, the orgasm violent, my fingers sliding against the tile, my body tensing, back rounding, and it is long and hard when it blooms, a wave of pleasure that shudders through me, my cries drowned out by the water, my pleasure extended by the spray. When I finally sink back against the wall, I am numb, my emotions spent, my body limp, my head a fog of orgasmic bliss.