Love in Lingerie(36)
“Yeah, I can feel that.” She rocks against me. “Any chance of me taking advantage of that?”
“Not tonight.” I reach up and gently pull at her hair, the wig coming off, her blonde hair spilling out. “I’m in one hell of a mood. I’m just going to step in the shower, if you don’t mind. Then I can take care of you.”
“I’m fine.” She rolls off my lap, bouncing to her feet. “I’m ten minutes away from a wine coma anyway.” She wanders toward the light, and pauses, turning in the doorway. “But you’re setting up something for this weekend, right? Someone for me to play with?”
“Yeah.” I watch as she arches her back, skimming the dress over her shoulders and dropping it to the floor, the woman unable to resist putting on a show. This weekend would be her prime opportunity, me and two other men fucking her nine-ways-to-Sunday. I wait for the familiar pull of excitement, the high that precedes a meeting, but there is nothing, my funk still in full effect, my mind unable to pull itself off the image of Stephen leaning over, his face beaming at Kate as if she is his.
I can’t keep this up. Something has to give, something has to crack. Otherwise, I am going to go mad. I’d think of a lingerie analogy, but my head hurts too much.
chapter 13
Her
“What do you think?” Trey flips the keys over in his hand and looks up at the chandelier, his eyes drifting over the living room’s exposed beams before returning to me. Marks Lingerie just finished a record-breaking year and Trey seems intent on spending all of the profit. Yesterday, he cut me a bonus check with enough zeros to make Mom faint. Today, we are house-hunting. Not for me, but for him.
“I like it.” I fall back on the leather couch, the giant cushion wide enough that I could do a mini snow angel of sorts. “Does the couch come with it?”
“Furniture is negotiable,” the agent pipes in, her heels clicking rapidly across the wood floors, following Trey in the direction of the kitchen. I roll to the left, coming off the couch and standing.
“It’s a little big,” I remark. “Five bedrooms? Are you starting an orphanage?” I’ve dropped a few Chelsea questions, ones he has dodged with professional skill. A house seems like a significant step toward settling down. They’ve been dating six months now. Maybe they are getting serious, talking babies—this home the first step to their own octuplets reality show. Inside, the familiar burn of envy flares.
“What’s that face for?” Trey stops before me. “What don’t you like?”
I wipe the scowl from my face and try to come up with something, anything, to dislike. “The ceilings are really high,” I manage.
He glances upward. “Yes they are. Excellent point. What would be ideal? Eight-foot?” He turns to the agent. “Can you put that on my requirement list?”
“Shut up,” I snap, and the agent looks from him to me, confused. “It’s fine.” I turn around, looking through the giant windows and at the view. “It’s perfect for you.”
“It’s got plenty of guest rooms,” he points out. “I could use a roommate.”
“Ha.” I smile. “I don’t think Chelsea would like that.”
“Or Stephen,” he points out, and I shift away, the conversation moving into the sort of direction we normally avoid. “Plus…” He turns to me. “You seem like you’d have trouble following the house rules.”
“House rules?” I laugh. “Let me guess.” He opens the sliding glass door and I step before him, into the backyard. Before us, a long pool glitters darkly, set off perfectly by the bright green grass. “Something about being naked.”
He scowls in response, proof positive of my guessing ability. “And…” I muse. “Mandatory meal prep.”
“It’s not my fault I like your cooking,” he says, offering a hand and helping me down the stairs and onto the pool deck.
We stop before the pool. “Want to test it out?” I grin at him and the edge of his mouth curves up.
“Ladies first,” he beckons.
I anticipate his next move and twist left in the moment before his hand reaches out to push me in. Kicking off my sandals, I dodge another swipe of his hand, sprinting around the edge of the pool and awkwardly jumping over a lounge chair. He stops, his chest barely moving, and eyes me, his eyes alit with mischief.
“Don’t even,” I warn.
“What?” he shrugs. “It’s hot out. And I’m dying to know how well my Creative Director swims.”
I scoff. “Regional freestyle champion, 2001.”
“Oh, I bet you blew those scrawny high-schoolers away,” he drawls, and I laugh, easing further around the pool.
“Ummm…” the realtor stops in the back doorway, her worried eyes darting between us. “I don’t think swimming is allowed.”
“Kate,” he lifts his chin to me. “Beat me across the length of this pool and I’ll buy this house.”
I laugh. “I don’t care if you buy it.” I’m perfectly happy with his current condo—and the gym it grants me access to. Plus, there’s no way I’m stripping down to my underwear and getting wet, even if I am wearing our Crepe sports collection—the perfect accompaniment to any physical activity, should a woman feel inclined to spend three hundred dollars on a sports bra and panty set.