“No, I went home and changed,” I say tartly. “Yes, this is what I wore. It’s nice.” The questionable outfit—a Jones New York skirt suit, one I had paired with a sweetheart top. Not the most casual of first date attire, but I’d met Stephen in the middle of a work day. A mini-dress hadn’t exactly seemed appropriate.
“Yes,” he agrees, pulling the door closed, the wind quieting, the sound of sports coming from another room. “It’s nice. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
I pull off my suit’s jacket and hang it over his stairway banister, pulling the hair away from my neck and following him to the kitchen, where he straddles a stool and flips over the first page of the contract. “You don’t want to dress nice when you go on a date, Kate.”
“Sorry,” I respond tartly. “We can’t all work from home during the playoffs.” I open his fridge, reaching down to the bottom drawer, where he keeps my Diet Coke. I grab one and push the drawer closed with my foot, elbowing the door shut before turning to him. His eyes flick up to my face. “Grab me one?”
“A Diet Coke?” I raise my eyebrows. He doesn’t drink diet. More than that, he scoffs at any man who does.
“There are regular ones in the same drawer. Underneath yours.”
I yank open the door and bend back over, digging through the ice cold pile of bottles, getting frustrated when I can’t … I look over my shoulder and see Trey settled back on the stool, one foot up on the adjoining stool, his eyes fixed on my ass. I straighten and his eyes jump to mine. “What?” he asks.
“You don’t have any regulars in there.”
“Maybe they’re in the other drawer, to the left of it. But arch your back this time. And moan a little.”
I sling my can of Diet Coke at his head, and he catches it, one-handed, a mischievous smile lighting up his face. “What? I’m thirsty!”
“I’m sure you are,” I grumble, kicking the door shut and leaning against the counter. “I ought to sue your ass for sexual harassment. “
“Wear that suit in court and no one will believe you.”
“It’s not that bad.” I glare at him and steal my soda back, tapping the lid before I crack it open.
“What’s underneath it?”
I ignore him and push the contract forward. “Sign this so I can get out of your hair.”
“Fine. Come over here and explain it to me.” He drops his foot from the other stool and pulls it out, his hand fishing in the top drawer of the island for a pen.
Trey Marks has several sides, but his business mode is the most tempting. It’s the seriousness that takes over his face, the somber tone, that smooth tongue that delivers words like boning, peephole, and thong without hesitation. I’ve taken advantage of it, stocking our meetings with female buyers, their reactions similar to my own, the entire room one big estrogen explosion by the time he slips his hands into his pockets and strolls out.
Now, I move to his side of the island and perch on the stool, leaning forward and pulling the cover page back into place. I have barely begun my explanation when I feel the tip of his pen pulling up the edge of my skirt. I stall, my eyes dropping to my thighs, the skirt inching higher, past my knees, now my thighs. My hose ends, my skin pale against the edge of the black lace, and my breath catches when the tip of the metal crosses onto my skin. “Easy…” he says slowly. “I’m just checking…” He slides the pen along the top of my stocking, until he reaches the garter clip. “What are these, the Mirabellas?”
“Yes.” I reach down to tug the skirt back into place and he swats away my hands.
“Put your hands on the counter, Kate. This isn’t going anywhere.”
This isn’t going anywhere? This has already gone somewhere it shouldn’t.
“I’m not touching you, Kate. Calm down.” He sounds so mild, as if he is examining packaging samples or marketing copy.
I let out a frustrated breath. “What are you doing?” We don’t do this. This is not playful flirtation, not when I am wet from just the touch of his pen.
“Put your hands on the counter. Flat. Palms down. Trust me.”
In eighteen months, he has ordered me to do many things. I almost always obey. Not always because I want to, but because I like to. When he uses that voice, it does something inside of me. Something that felt—back when I was engaged to Craig—wicked. Put your hands on the counter. Flat. Palms down. I glance down at his pen, the metal tip of it next to the lace of my stocking. He drags the point lightly against my skin and I close my eyes. I carefully place my hands on the cool surface of his counter, my fingers spreading over the marble, lines of silver and blue across the giant expanse of white. Trust me. In some ways, I trust him with my life. In other ways, these ways, I wouldn’t put anything past him. Will he lower his mouth to mine? Maybe. Will he slide his hands up my sweater and brush his fingers over my breasts? I hope so.
“You know we’ve had some complaints of the elastic getting stretched out on these.” He slides the pen underneath the top of the stocking, his eyes on the motion, and I watch as he tilts his head, watching the nylon stretch. “Have you experienced that?”
“No.”
“I’m going to slide my hand under here.”