Sure. Come over around ten. We can celebrate naked.
I send the message and smile, imagining Craig’s face when he reads it, the rise of his eyebrows, the widening of his eyes. It will catch him off guard, our texts never racy, everything appropriate, should anyone pick up either of our phones. But tonight, I’m feeling reckless. Maybe it’s the unshackling of my Claudia VanGaur cuffs. Maybe it’s the three glasses of wine I’ve had. Or maybe it’s the phantom feel of Trey Marks’s eyes, the way that—fully dressed before him—I had felt naked.
Craig’s knees against the inside of my thighs. His hands beside my shoulders. He dips his head and I lift my chin. We kiss, our teeth bumping, and he slows his thrusts in order to do a better job.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too.” I lift and wrap my legs around his waist, my hands digging into the meat of his ass, and when I pull him hard against me, he responds. There is a moment of heavy breaths and small grunts, and I close my eyes, enjoying the movement, the flex of his cock inside of me, the slap of our bodies together. I can feel when he is close, the quickening of strokes, the tightening of muscles, and he moans, pushing deeper, his body stiffening as he gives one final pump.
I close my eyes, and Trey Marks’s face flashes, for a quick moment, in the dark.
At L&L, all of the Los Angeles employees worked in one big loft, our desks arranged in clusters to foster teamwork and interaction. The only thing it fostered was paranoia, the feeling that we were being watched constantly, no conversations private, peak times a shouting match of everyone trying to be heard. Some nights I was hoarse from the constant need to raise my voice just to have a simple conversation.
At Marks Lingerie, I am given a private office, one with glass walls and a view of the city skyline. I run my fingers over my nameplate, the Creative Director title sending a small thread of pleasure through me.
“Got everything you need?” I turn to see Trey, his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe. The tie he wears is crisply knotted, his jacket gone, his short hair styled in the messy way of playboys everywhere. His tan skin contrasts with the blue button-down, his eyes popping against the color.
“I’m good.” I smile, pulling my bag off of my shoulder and setting it on the desk. “Great view.”
“We need you to keep it.” He smiles, and I see the stress behind the words.
“Yes sir.” I nod. I can handle pressure. Compared to L&L, this is Disneyland. Instead of eight clothing divisions, we have one. Instead of reporting to Claudia, I’ve got him.
Lingerie, I can handle. Visions, I can create. A team, I can inspire. A boss, I can please.
I smile at him and can see the worry in his eyes.
It’s amazing how productive I am when Claudia is removed from the equation. In a typical day at L&L, I spent five or six hours with her. On my first day at Marks, there was a three-hour stretch where I closed my office door and no one bothered me. Total silence! For three hours! I was able to review four years of catalogs and product lines before lunch. I unpacked my thermos and ate at my desk, diving into the designers’ files, a task which ate up the rest of the day. I left by six, and was asleep by nine.
On my second day, I conducted an employee survey, as well as interviewed the entire design staff, one-by-one, a process that ate up almost seven hours. The general consensus, though they didn’t use these exact terms: Trey is amazing and this job is a cupcake run. Maybe it’s the last decade I’ve spent in cardigan-wearing hell, but my lip had curled a little at the idea of a company drowning, and their employees enjoying the ride. It is past time to rock this boat.
Trey walks by, his jacket on, keys in hand, and I already hate this glass wall that separates my office from the hall. Each pass of his suit reminds me of a donut shop display, a million calories, lined up to tempt you. A million mistakes, all brightly lit and just a touch away. Just before his office, he turns his head, our eyes meet, and it’s like biting into a dark chocolate eclair. That one hold of eye contact—it’s addictive, the promise of more, the knowledge that you should put it down and walk away.