Love in Lingerie(55)

“It feels weird,” I confess, sliding a box of cereal toward her. “Being able to do the things I’ve thought about for so long.”

“I know.” She smiles, opening the top of the cereal box. “I feel the same. Like I’m cheating or something.”

“Should I have done this sooner?” I ask, leaning my forearms on the counter and watching her, the fall of her dark hair as she looks down, watching the frosted Cheerios fall into the bowl. “Made a move on you?” God, the wasted years. All of the trips we’ve made, the late nights we’ve worked, the times I’d locked myself in my office and jacked off, thinking of her lips around my cock, her body in my hands.

“I don’t know,” she says, considering the thought. “I’m not sure we would have worked out if we had tried to date earlier.” She uncaps the milk and lifts it, pouring into the bowl. “Like … after I broke up with Craig?” Her eyes meet mine as she sets the jug back down. “I feel like our relationship was so weak back then. I mean, compared to how we are now. There was attraction … but I don’t know if it would have lasted.”

I scowl at the idea of us ever not making it, even if in a fictional scenario.

“Plus, you hadn’t dated Chelsea,” she points out. “You probably would have tried to get me in some kind of kinky ninesome.”

I make my way around the island, hating even the idea of it. “I told you, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“I know, but I’m just pointing out that Chelsea helped with that. Just like Stephen helped me to see one version of a relationship, and Craig helped me to see a different one.” She scoops a spoonful of cereal and brings it to her mouth, her lips parting for the silver utensil, my dick hardening at just the tiny glimpse I get of her tongue. I want to hop up on the counter right now. Slide her stool over until it is before me, my legs hanging before her, her hand digging into my thighs, her feet bare against the stool’s rungs. She chews, her jaw moving, and I think about how hard she had tried to take all of me, her eyes moving to mine, that jaw stretching, the play of her tongue against my shaft, the—

“Trey.” Her lips part around the word, and I am off of my stool and pulling her against me, the spoon clattering against the tile floor, her arms wrapping around my neck, and she tastes like sugar and milk, her mouth as greedy as mine, her body light when I lift her up and onto the counter. The reality is better than my fantasy, her panties easily skimmed off, her knees parting, and I pull my mouth from her kiss and move down, to the only thing better.





chapter 22

Her

five months later

I close my eyes and rub my forehead, glancing at my watch, the minutes passing interminably slow. Over the phone’s speaker, the translator talks slowly, filling in the gap in time before our French distributor launches into another spiel.

“Adrien,” I interrupt. “Let’s focus on the root of the problem for a moment. When do you need the catalog? Give me a realistic timeframe.”

I wait as the translator speaks, French quickly flying between the two, and glance again at my watch. Outside my window, the city lights move, cars driving, office lights turning off, a plane twinkling from its place in the sky. I used to enjoy late nights at the office. I loved the quiet, the productive hours without interruption, my inbox finally worked through, any sleepy spells taken care of via a fifteen minute catnap on the couch. Now, I eye the couch, a sleek modern piece that has gotten more than its fair share of use lately, all of it of the X-rated variety. My phone buzzes, and I glance at the text from Trey.

Jet’s ready. Take your time. I’ve got a call with Frank in ten minutes.

I don’t respond to it, moving the cell phone aside and pulling up my calendar, looking at design schedules, and our concepts in progress. It takes another forty minutes to come to a date that pleases Adrien, and another ten minutes to stop his attempt to renegotiate our rate. By the time I hang up, my head hurts. I move to email, firing off updates to the involved parties, and eye the calendar one last time, mentally moving through all of the pieces, making sure that everything is in place before I push away from the desk. I snag my phone and text Trey back on the elevator ride down.

On my way. France is happy.

I walk through the lobby, smiling at the security guard who unlocks the front door and escorts me to my car. “Have a safe trip, Ms. Martin,” he says.

“Thanks, John.” I open the door and duck into the car, giving him a small wave before shutting the door. I’ve left this building so many times, heard that parting line so often I could recite it in my sleep. Would he stumble when I returned? Would the first time, the first utter of my new name, sound odd?

I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel and the diamond glints at me. I press down on the clutch and shift the car into reverse, the growl of the engine giving me my first shot of relief. Everything is taken care of. Everything is in place. I back up carefully, then pulling forward and toward the front gate, my nerves loosening by the time I get on the freeway, heading to the airport. I call Jess and my mother, a short conference call filled with teasing giggles and the threat of a surprise visit. I threaten them with bodily harm, then promise to see them as soon as we return.

Three weeks off. Tahiti, in one of those tiki huts set out in the brilliant blue waters of the South Pacific. Three weeks where I would become his wife and we would sip frozen drinks, dance on the sand, skinny dip in that gorgeous water, and get a head start on baby-making. Would the company survive? Two years ago, the answer would have been a resounding no. One year ago, I’d have worried the entire time. Now, I feel confident in our team, in our new managers, in the systems and relationships that we’ve spent these years building.