Love in Lingerie
Page 4

“Job description,” I interrupt. “I know.” She’s obsessed with them. I can see, spread out on the glass top of her desk, a dozen of them, covering different roles in the company. She’s probably the only one who has ever read them, much less taken them as gospel. I need to review hers. I have a feeling it will be haunting this relationship. I unwrap my fingers from the chair, and can see the indentations I have left, the bites in the leather, ones that are already beginning to fade. I step back, and notice her heels, lined neatly up by the credenza, her bare feet against the wood floors, the tip of each toe painted a light pink. She has tiny ankles, and I have a brief vision of my hand wrapped around one, her feet against my shoulders, my palm running down the length of her legs.
She raises her eyebrows and I try to find a coherent stream of thought. “I’ll be looking for that memo.” I stop, one hand on the doorknob, and feel like I’m running. I need to say something else, something that puts me back in the driver’s seat and reaffirms my authority.
There is a long beat where her eyes hold mine, a challenge flashing out, clouding the arousal. My dick is confused, and so is my head.
I open the door and escape into the hall, into my domain.
If this woman was lingerie, she’d be black leather, with studs along the seams and enough of a dominatrix vibe to give a man pause.
If this woman was lingerie, I’d strip it off and then properly show her who is in charge.
Chapter 3
Her
two months later
“I just don’t understand how you didn’t get it.”
I let out a controlled breath, pulling my seatbelt across my chest and pushing it into the clasp. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t figure it out.”
Damn Mensa and their “delightfully fun puzzles!”—puzzles that I had failed. We’d had four challenges in tonight’s party, and I had failed three of them. Craig was—still is—dismayed by my results. Next week’s event is a ”fun team challenge!” which I’m assuming will mean that Craig’s and my scores will be combined. That possibility seems to be the true root of his panic.
I glance over at him, watching as he flips on the windshield wipers and checks all three mirrors before shifting into reverse. His face is pale blue from the restaurant’s sign, the fluorescent neon highlighting the thick mop of dark hair that is perfectly combed, despite the stress of the evening. I consider telling him the truth, and just as quickly discard it.
The truth is, I cheated on the Mensa admittance test. I found an online answer sheet and penciled in enough right answers to get me in, without arising any suspicions over a perfect score. I got my laminated card, slid my hand into Craig’s, and walked into that damn event. I didn’t think it would be so hard. I didn’t realize that everyone would be so freaking serious about the thing. Each challenge had been timed, the correct answers written on a big white board in order of timing. In the air, competitive spirit had almost crackled with intensity. At the end of the night, Craig had placed second. The losers had been on their own board, a board that I dominated in depressingly consistent fashion. The only name lower than mine had been Chad, a scrawny guy with skinny jeans and a pierced tongue. Chad had been brought by his parents, and was a high school sophomore, a fact that Craig had pointed out three times.
“Maybe you have performance anxiety.” Craig rolls the syllable of each word on his tongue as if testing their flavors. “Athletes suffer from it all of the time. Maybe it caused your brain to lock up.”
“Maybe.” I reach down, into my purse, and pull out a pack of gum. “Want some gum?”
“I bet there are exercises we could do online. We could time them, to try to recreate the environment. Or maybe food—you know, tryptophan relieves anxiety.”
“Tryptophan?” I pull a stick of Big Red out and hold it toward him, his head shaking subtly, his hands remaining locked in their ten and two positions. “Like turkey?”
“It’s a precursor to a neurotransmitter called serotonin, which helps you feel calm.”
“I know what serotonin is,” I say flatly, though—honestly—I don’t. I mean, I sort of know what it is. Though I thought it had something to do with sunshine and skin. Or maybe that’s melatonin. Or melanin. Something like that.
“It’s not just in turkey,” he continues, the van coming to a complete stop at a stop sign. There are no cars in sight, not so much as a falling leaf moving, yet he looks left, then right, then checks his rearview mirror. “It’s also in chicken and bananas. Cheese, oats, peanut butter…” He continues to list food and I rest my head on the headrest, tuning him out. He’s crazy if he thinks that I’m going to do a food prep for the next meeting. I’m not even certain I’m going to the next meeting. I’m not even home from this one, and I’m already dreading it.
“I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.” I interrupt his continuing list of tryptophan foods, a list that is getting ridiculously long, and I don’t know what is more alarming—how many foods contain tryptophan, or how many foods that Craig is aware of. There are times when it is convenient to date a brilliant man. There are other times, present moment included, when it is just really damn annoying. It’d be one thing if he was quietly brilliant, the sort of quiet and unassuming genius that keeps all of his worldly knowledge to himself. But Craig is more of the “let everyone know how much I know” type. He won’t shut up about it. And tonight, I can’t take any more of it.
“Oh. So … I won’t come in, then.” He puts the van into park and turns on his hazards, a habit I used to find endearing but tonight is absolutely maddening in its overkill. The chances of someone tearing around the curve and hitting his vehicle in the moments in which he is walking me in … they are minute at best. He waits a beat before opening his door, his head tilting to me, waiting for confirmation of his suggestion.
“That would probably be best.” I stuff the gum pack back into my purse, waiting for him to walk around the front of the car, his journey marked by the orange flares of his hazard lights. He opens my door and I step out.
“Tomorrow, we can brainstorm about next week,” he says, helping me up the dark path to the building.
“Sure.” I’ll brainstorm all right. I’ll spend every second of tomorrow’s spare time devising an excuse for my absence. Maybe a last-minute meeting? Or a highly contagious cold?
We come to a stop outside the door. “Goodnight, Kate.” His kiss is soft, a gentle press that speaks of forgiveness. I forgive you for your terrible performance tonight. I forgive you for your performance anxiety, and for embarrassing me. Next week, we will do better. I know it. I hear the words as clearly as if he speaks them.
“Goodnight.”
It’s not his fault I cheated. I unlock the door and wonder how much of my irritation is due to myself, and the un-winnable situation I’ve put myself in. Once inside, I reconsider inviting him in. Will he be able to move past my performance? Will we be able to discuss anything other than that damn whiteboard and his second-place standing on it?
I move down the hall to my apartment, heading for the shower as soon as I step in.
Him
My sex life has occasionally put me in awkward situations. That’s what happens when your brand of kink is outside the box. It puts you in unique places, with unique people. This is the first time it’s put me in front of a gun.
The setup had been simple, which typically works best in these situations. I leave a key at the front desk. I go to the room. At 10 PM I go into the shower, taking my time. When I finish, and step out, into the hotel room, she will be waiting on the bed. Cue the fun.
She is waiting, all right.
I rest my hands on my bare hips and look past the 9mm, and to the woman holding it. She looks nothing like the profile photos, her hair dark instead of light, her breasts big instead of small, her eyes calculating instead of sweet. She smiles, and a silver tooth glints out from her smile. I hope she’s not planning on raping me. I have a wide range of women who I find attractive, but crazy bitch isn’t on that menu.
A man comes from behind her and steps past me, into the bathroom. There is the rustle of clothing, and then he emerges, rattling my car keys. “Struck the jackpot with this one,” he drawls. “Tesla.”