Window Shopping(29)

“Is roughness what gets you off?”

She moans at the question and I’m panting now, turning, dragging her closer, ready to yank down her tights and lick her until she forgets her own name. My question is out there. Hanging. I can’t take it back, no matter how inappropriate. No matter how much I wish the timing was different. “Yes. And thinking of you being…” She squeezes her eyes closed. “Turned on. In the office. For me. Trying to hold it together. You’re hard and sweaty and you need relief, but there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I didn’t realize you had a camera pointed at my desk.”

Her breathy laugh seals the deal. Completely robs me of scruples and ethics and restraint. I’m going to settle her onto my lap and unzip my pants. There is no way in hell I can live another second without the wet squeeze of her pussy sliding lower and lower, cradling me. Feeling her move, listening to her whimper. If we move slowly enough, the car won’t rock. Maybe. Jesus. I’m not even sure I can make myself care about being caught when I’m this hungry for her. “I need you, Stella,” I growl, turning us, positioning myself to be straddled—

A horn honks loudly.

Two, three honks.

I’m lost in a stupor, my thoughts sticky and lost in an unrecognizable pattern. Who is honking? What year is this? I don’t know, but I’m halfway through dragging an employee onto my lap in public. Having sex with her—all formalities tossed away like a batch of burned cookies. The sun has begun to rise while we’ve been…not kissing. Just grabbing clothing and breathing hard and confessing fantasies. I could live my life doing this. I could keep going through the next seventy Christmases, tasting her chocolate breath in my mouth and listening to her tell me she thinks of me erect and sweaty at my desk. That it gets her revved up.

But someone is honking and I’m outside Vivant. My place of work.

Possibly taking advantage of an employee.

The lining of my stomach burns. “Stella,” I manage, swallowing, settling her gently back on the opposite side of the backseat. “I’m sorry. Jesus. I got carried away.”

“We both did, Aiden,” she responds, dazed, repeatedly curling messed up strands of hair behind her ears. “It’s o-okay.”

I want to argue, but I get distracted by the swollen rosiness of her mouth. Her red-stained cheeks. The fact that her hips keep shifting around, as if I’ve left her unsatisfied. Of course I did. I started something I can’t finish. Yet. Something I might not ever be able to finish if she doesn’t like me enough to make this…situation between us official.

With that troubling thought in my head, I turn and look out the back window of the town car, inwardly wincing when I see my father and Shirley stepping out of their limousine, Randall skulking two feet behind them. They nod at someone up ahead and that’s when I see the store managers have started to gather, Jordyn, the first-floor supervisor among them. Either none of them have seen us or I’m exceptionally lucky to have so many discreet employees.

I turn back to the girl beside me, still trying to compose herself on the seat—I can relate. I’m not sure I’ll ever be composed again after what we just did. But this moment isn’t about me. Or even us. This is Stella’s time.

“Remember,” she says, addressing me before climbing out of the car. “You don’t have to protect me from criticism. Let me hear their opinion. I have to be able to handle it, okay?”

It costs me an effort to nod, but I manage a stiff one.

Watching my relatives out of the corner of my eye, my earlier nerves bubble back to the surface, accompanied on the growing tide of protectiveness I have for Stella. But mostly, I’m proud of her. For coming out of her pause. Moving forward. And I hope like hell that whatever is on the other side of the paper is enough to keep her pressing play.





7





Stella





When I was in fifth grade, my school PTA held a mock art gallery opening. Sculptures and paintings created by students were put on display in the gymnasium. Parents could walk through and buy the items. Of course, it was kind of customary to purchase your child’s creation and looking back, it was mainly a way for the PTA to make a lot of easy cash. And I remember it feeling just like this. Skin vibrating, muscles taut, so hot that I’m cold.

There is something about revealing art that is so personal, so vulnerable. The concept for this window came straight out of my head. No one approved it. No one said, yes this will work. It’s a flying leap. It’s believing in an idea—and since everyone has ideas, this is when the imposter syndrome kicks in. What makes me think my idea was going to stop foot traffic on Fifth Avenue? What makes me think I’m artistically gifted at all?

Just like at that PTA art show, it’s my parents whose reactions mean the most.

But this time, they’re not here. They’re not going to show up with big, enthusiastic smiles on their faces, armed with praise and a suggestion that we stop for celebratory ice cream on the way home. They don’t even know I have this job.

Maybe they’ve completely moved on with their lives and aren’t thinking of me at all.

That possibility threatens to take the wind out of me, so I push it away. I remind myself that if I can do well at window dressing, if I can prove to myself what I’m capable of, I’ll eventually attempt to prove it to them, too. I’ll try again with my parents. In time.