“I’ll do that,” he mumbles, his head moving, one eye opening to watch me. I bend over and slide the first one closed, and the corner of his mouth lifts up. “Never mind,” he muses. “You do it much better. Especially naked like that.”
“Shut up.” I close the other two and return to him, stepping over his chest and stopping, extending my hand. “Come on. We both need showers.”
“You’re evil,” he groans, his eyes between my legs. “I thought you looked good in my lingerie but fuck.” He drawls out the last word, his eyes shameless in their perusal. “I’d rather you work naked.”
“That won’t work.” I wave my hand impatiently in front of him. “My fiancé is a jealous bastard. He doesn’t like it when other men look at me.”
It’s as if I’ve given him a gift. His eyes lift to my face, and his lips twitch into a new smile, a shy one. “I think he likes it when they look. He just doesn’t like it when they touch.” He finally takes my hand, his legs coming up underneath him, and I lift my chin to look up into his face when he stands.
“Is that so?” I say.
“I wouldn’t blame any man for ever looking at you, Kate,” he says softly. “You’re the most beautiful woman any of us have ever seen.”
“You’re so full of shit.” I smile.
His hands come up, and he holds my face, his eyes deepening as he looks into mine. “Tell me more about your fiancé.”
“Hmm.” I muse. “He’s very smart. Almost annoyingly so. And he knows it, which makes it even worse. And he’s cocky. But in that confident, sexy way that makes you want him to rip off your clothes as soon as you meet him. But he’s also unbelievably sweet.” He presses his lips to mine, just a gentle pull of love, and then a release, his eyebrows raising for more. “And generous,” I add, earning a second kiss. “And…” I scrunch my brow, as if I am thinking hard for another compliment. And kind. And funny, and loving, and vulnerable, and witty, and intoxicating, and every positive word that Webster ever created.
“Addictive?” he supplies.
I twist my lips. “Kind of.” I venture. “I’m not sure yet. It’s a fairly new engagement.”
“Do you think it will stick?” His hands tighten, and he draws me closer.
I look up into his eyes. “I do. I want it to.”
“It will.” He lowers his mouth, and this kiss—it is more of a promise, the sort that wipes away all doubt and tells me a thousand times over, with each brush of his lips, that he means this. That we will stick, that all of this will last.
He lifts his mouth from mine. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I pull the blanket back and crawl under the sheets, the act almost reverent in its execution. I’ve never been in his bed with him, never slid, bare skin to bare skin, against his body. He had insisted on my sleepwear—a sheer slip from last season, and he wraps a hand around me, pulling me across the king bed and against him, my bottom snug to the bend of his body, his hand closing possessively over one breast. I relax against the pillow, my eyes picking up all of the details before me. The closed curtains, their edges framed in soft moonlight. The glow from the bathroom’s nightlight giving subtle definition to the art, the dark blue walls, the elephant lamp on the bedside table. His breath is warm against my neck, and he squeezes me gently, just a test, as if to see if I am still here. I cup my hand over his and lower my mouth to his fingers, one kiss pressed against the digits.
In the morning, maybe all this will be gone. In the morning, we both might regret everything.
I stay awake as long as I can, enjoy as much as I can, the feel of him, the sounds of him sleeping. In the quiet room, I whisper my love for him.
chapter 21
Him
“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 th
rough 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.
When I step from the car at the airport, I leave my briefcase and laptop in the trunk, taking only my wallet and passport, my step light as I move through the private airport, the stairs of the jet down, beckoning me. There is movement inside, and then he is there, at the top of the stairs, smiling down at me, and everything in my chest swells.
I’d never believed in fairytales, but this man—he is my prince, my future, my everything.
Him
We take the jet to San Francisco, then get on a huge Airbus, and all of the in-flight amenities don’t make up for the fact that I have to behave for nineteen hours, an impossible feat when next to her. She’s helping out the cause, especially right now, her mouth gaping open in a most unattractive way, a thin line of drool leaking from the right side of her mouth. I smile, and carefully reach around her, pressing the buttons on her seat until it is fully reclined, her mouth closing, head rolling to one side. I do my best to cover her with a blanket, then recline my own seat, moving onto my right side until I am facing her.
Even now, she terrifies me. Even as I know she accepts my past, she accepts my love, and returns it all. Will I ever believe that it is real? Will I ever be secure that I won’t lose her? Or will it only get worse? Is that how love works? Is it more painful the harder you fall? Do you worry more with each additional blessing? I can fight for our love, I can work to be the best husband, the best friend, the best father that I can—I can control those aspects of our marriage. But there will be a thousand more I can’t. I can’t force her to love me as strongly in ten years as she does now. I can’t control if her heart gets bored and finds someone else. I can’t control drunk drivers, or freak accidents, or prevent illness from finding her. I can’t guarantee that this one moment—her face against the pillow, hand limp against her lap—isn’t the last we will have.
I know that it’s morbid; I get that it’s not rational. Yet, that’s the fear that dominates my thoughts. I reach out and wrap my hand through hers, her fingers tightening for a moment. Her eyes open, and there is a drugged moment of awakening, then she smiles.
She smiles and damn—my heart almost breaks from the hit. If there is a way to love a woman more, it must kill a man. She whispers that she loves me, and as I repeat the words back, they feel so inadequate.
If our love was lingerie, it’d be a corset, one laced so tightly that it takes your breath.
If our love was lingerie, it would be drawn on her skin with ink, a tattoo designed to bend and grow with her.
If our love was lingerie, it would be a see-through lace that would share everything while still teasing the hell out of both parties.
If our love was lingerie, it’d be leather, thin strips of binding that could withstand a hundred years of war and peace, fights and love-making. It would yield and give, yet never rip or break. It would be built to last, to wear forever.
If our love was lingerie, it would never come off.
epilogue
five years later
When she comes into the office, I can’t stop staring. It doesn’t matter if I am elbow-deep in issues, or in the midst of a meeting. Today, when the door opens and she is there, I stop mid-sentence. “Excuse me,” I say to the room. I meet her eyes and smile, dropping to my knees on the carpet and calling her name.
Kate releases her hand, and Olivia toddles forward, her footing still a little wobbly, her chubby hand outstretched as she moves toward me. She has her mother’s smile, her mother’s confidence, and she giggles in the moment before she reaches my arms, her excited shriek muffled against my chest as I pick her up. I meet Kate’s eyes and she grins, her other hand full, the newborn hand fisting the front of her shirt. I move toward them both and kiss her first, lingering over her mouth before turning to Baby Trey. I gently kiss the top of his soft head as Kate apologizes to the room. I ignore them, looking into Olivia’s eyes, grinning as her hands find my cheeks and gently pat them. When Kate moves toward the door, I lower Olivia to the floor, accepting the high five that she enthusiastically offers.
“We’ll be in your office,” Kate whispers, and pulls the door open, propping it with her butt as she waits for Olivia to move through it. She waves at me and Olivia mimics the motion, turning and wiggling her fingers at me, a move that makes both Kate and me laugh. Our eyes meet and my heart twists. In my wallet, I have a list of the things that I once loved most about her. A list of ways that she blew me away. The list is old—one I wrote on the back of a napkin six or seven years ago. I wrote it before we were together, before Stephen, back when I was struggling with my feelings and whether or not I had a chance with her. I found the list when I was looking for an old business card, and had felt a wave of nostalgia, looking back through the things that I had once cherished most about her. The list misses everything I would now fill it with. The way that she curls into my body during the night. The look of pride on her face when our children do something amazing. The type of mother she is, the fiercely protective way she loves our family, and leads it in a way that puts Marks Lingerie to shame. The fearless way she loves without hesitation. I spent the first year of our relationship afraid, while she dove in deep and never looked back. Her ability to switch from mother to executive seamlessly. The way that motherhood has softened her stress but strengthened every other seam of her makeup.
She smiles, and I can’t look away.
Author’s Note
At the end of each book, when I finish the last sentence and save the file, I feel a little sad. It’s a contented sort of sadness - like the drive home from a great vacation. At that point, I’ve spent months in the lives of these characters, and it is sometimes hard to tell them goodbye. It was especially hard to leave Trey and Kate. I could have kept writing their scenes for weeks. There were so many moments in their relationship that I wanted to capture. And it was hard for me to determine the balance between what was needed for the story, and what would have bogged it down. My biggest fear as an author is boring the reader. And sometimes that fear can negatively affect the story—I rush through it at lightning speed. That was how the first draft of this book was - a quick race through Trey and Kate’s story. The second and third draft went back and tried to fill in the gaps, tried to show the important moments that both marked passages of time and showed the progression of their relationship.
But even now, I am second-guessing some of my deletions. Even now, with release just days away, I am writing new scenes for this couple. If you want to see the new content I’ve written, click here. Please note,
these aren’t edited or proofed, so please forgive their rough nature.
If this is the first book of mine that you have read, awesome! I hope you enjoyed it. At the end of this note is a guide that might help you pick your next read of mine.
If you are a loyal reader of mine, thank you so much! I appreciate your support more than you will ever know. Please recommend Love in Lingerie to your friends. Your referrals allow me to write full-time and bring you more books!
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