Love in Lingerie

  Love in Lingerie

  Copyright © 2017 by Alessandra Torre. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN Digital: 978-1-940941-85-1

  ISBN Print: 978-1-940941-86-8

  Formatting: Erik Gevers

  Cover Design: Perfect Pear Creative Covers

  Cover Image: Adobe Stock

  Editing: Madison Seidler

  Beta Readers: Marion Making Manuscripts, Proof is in the Reading, SueBee, Wendy Metz, Tricia Crouch

  Proofing: Perla Calas

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 Her

  Him

  Chapter 2 Her

  Him

  Chapter 3 Her

  Him

  Chapter 4 Her

  Him

  Chapter 5 Her

  Chapter 6 Him

  Her

  Chapter 7 Her

  Him

  Her

  Chapter 8 Her

  Him

  Chapter 9 Her

  Him

  Her

  Chapter 10 Him

  Her

  Chapter 11 Her

  Him

  Chapter 12 Her

  Her

  Him

  Chapter 13 Her

  Him

  Chapter 14 Her

  Him

  Chapter 15 Her

  Him

  Chapter 16 Him

  Her

  Chapter 17 Her

  Him

  Chapter 18 Her

  Him

  Chapter 19 Her

  Chapter 20 Him

  Her

  Chapter 21 Him

  Chapter 22 Her

  Him

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  pi love

  chapter 1

  Her

  Some men reek of trouble. Trey Marks is one of those men. His fingers haven’t stopped moving since I sat down. Right now they are turning the dial of his watch, an expensive piece that peeks out of the edge of his custom suit. I can hear the click of the dial as he gently slides it forward, just one notch at a time, spaced out just enough to drive me mad. Is he even listening to me? I’m barely listening to myself, my ears pricked and tuned to the next click of the timepiece. Click.

  “If you look at the last page, you can see some of my ideas for your Isabella line…” Click.

  “I have contacts that could lower your costs, especially in the…” Click.

  “I’m looking for a position that will allow me to have greater decision-making ability and…” Click.

  I tighten my hands around the leather portfolio, fighting the urge to reach over and snatch his hands away from the watch. He removes the distraction, the offending hand moving up to rub over his lips. I look away. He doesn’t just reek of trouble. The damn man is dipped in temptation, the center of it all radiating out of those eyes. I stepped in this office, and those eyes undressed me. I sat down before him and he all but rubbed his hands in glee.

  “You seem apprehensive, Ms. Martin.” His hand drops from his mouth and I force myself to meet his eyes.

  “I’m sorry. Interview nerves.” I smile and he studies me.

  “Is that it?” He doesn’t believe me. One point for Marks, though I’m not entirely surprised by his ability to read women. His business is seduction, designing lingerie pieces that lure women to purchase and men to take off. According to industry rumors, he’s never been married, fucks like an animal, and has a mouth like my shower massager. It doesn’t matter. He needs a Creative Director, and I need a new job. Word on the street is that Marks Lingerie is struggling, and I don’t need a psychology degree to read the stress that frames his cocky stare. Deep lines across his forehead, the tight clench of his jaw, that damn reach of his fingers to his watch. I recognize the signs. Stress, at the moment, is my life.

  It could be worse. I could have a sick child, or an abusive husband—something more valid than the simple fact that I hate my job. I hate it in a way that makes my chest hurt when I step off the elevator each morning. I spend my lunch break in my car, tinted windows up, the engine off, hiding from my bitch of a Creative Director, Claudia VanGaur. She’s been threatening to retire for the last decade. For that long, I’ve been stupid enough to believe her. Now, I’m stupid to stay, stupid to continue waiting for her to turn over the reins. She’ll be at Lavern & Lilly ’til she’s dead, and torture every employee until that dying breath.

  I need a change; I need the promotion I’ve deserved for a decade. I’ll work anywhere in women’s fashion, but undergarments are my passion, and this is the first Creative Director opportunity that has appeared in the last year. I don’t just want it; I need it.

  “Tell me about the guy.”

  “I’m sorry?” I watch as his eyes drop to my hands, to the diamond, and suddenly understand. “Oh. Craig. He’s…” My mind blanks. He’s very nice. He’s a chemist. He’s never looked at me the way that you, right now, are. “We’ve been engaged four months,” I finish. It’s a safe answer, one that doesn’t mention Craig’s MIT diploma, or his upper-class upbringing. As much as the industry gossips about Trey Mark’s bedroom skills, they bemoan his upbringing even more. Raised in South Central. The son of a stripper, one killed in a nineties drug raid. College dropout. The rumor is that he slept his way into some rich old lady’s fortune, waited for her to die, then used the ill-gotten inheritance to start Marks.

  “Have you set a date?”

  With just one question, he exposes everything. “No. Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  I can feel a scowl forming, the movement of my eyebrows tightening, and I force a smile, letting out a soft exhale as I speak. “We just haven’t. We’re both very busy right now.” I swallow, and hope that I buried the truth. Because I’m scared. Because I’m bored. Because right now, if I am so easily affected by you, then I probably shouldn’t be getting married to begin with.

  His mouth cracks, a widening of lips, the peek of perfect teeth. It is the beginning of a smile, and I can see him fight to contain it, his tongue playing with the corner of his mouth before he purses his lips closed. His eyes drop once more to my ring before they lift again to my face, his features more composed, a flicker of amusement still in those dark eyes. I want to ask him what is so damn funny. Instead, I knot my fingers and focus on finding an imperfection on his face. I fail.

  “I’m asking about your fiancé for purely innocent reasons. Kate, I’m not the easiest person to work for.” He leans forward, his forearms resting on the desk, and runs the fingers of one hand over the knuckles of his other. “I’m temperamental, and terrible with instructions, and I can be a real asshole.” A hint of a smile appears, then he sobers. “But despite what you may have heard about me, there are certain lines I don’t cross, and fucking my employees is one of them.”

  “Literally or figuratively?” I don’t know where the words come from, but they are well received, his grin splitting wide open, a chuckle rumbling out.

  “Both.” He pushes to his feet and extends a hand. “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Martin. Someone will be in touch to follow up.”

  My stomach twists. Maybe it is my portfolio. Maybe I seemed too eager. Maybe, it is the ring on my finger. I force a smile and slide my palm into his, the squ
eeze of his handshake just strong enough to ground me. “Certainly. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  The lie falls smoothly from my lips, but our handshake lasts a second too long.

  I don’t know how I’ll return to Lavern & Lilly, or how I’ll make it through more years under Claudia, but I know one thing: Trey Marks can say all day long he doesn’t fuck his employees, but I’d bet you his watch that he’d have spread me wide open on his desk if I’d asked for it.

  I push on the exterior door and step into the Los Angeles heat, inhaling the light honeysuckle scent. In four hours, I have dinner with Craig, a meal where he will dissect every moment of my interview and manage to pile more stress onto my job search. I leave Trey Marks’s inappropriate comments in the parking lot, and get in my car, my mind already cataloguing which details I will share with Craig.

  It takes twenty minutes of windows-down driving, music blaring, my steering wheel shuddering underneath my palms, for me to forget the pull of his smile.

  Baby Jesus in a Manger. The man should be illegal.

  Him

  My desk was a gift from my father, a man who always spent more than he made, my childhood a mix of shiny toys and eviction notices. He gave me this desk a month before he died, the piece plucked from an estate sale down in Rancho Santa Fe, the hundred-year-old piece hand-carved, the edges filled with miniature battle scenes, the top inlaid with leather. I kept the card that he left on its surface, a single notecard, his scrawl barely legible across its lined surface. Always fight, it said. An interesting sentiment for a man who drove his brand new Porsche off a Malibu cliff. The responding officers blamed fog and heavy rain. I blamed aggressive creditors, mom’s death, and the flask he liked to keep in his front pocket.

  I slide the folder of resumes before me, the simple act of opening the folder exhausting in its chore. Staffing will be the death of me. So important to a company, so time consuming when squeezed into a day. But this position, out of all of them, is the most important. I can’t pass off my Creative Director to a staffing agency or HR. This role will work hand-in-hand with me. This choice could save Marks Lingerie or cement our demise. I flip through the resumes and stop at Kate Martin’s, letting out a stiff breath as I survey the page. A Bachelors from Parsons. UCLA for her MBA. Only one job dotting the work experience section, her last eleven years spent with Lavern & Lilly. I make a face. Lavern & Lilly is conservative women’s fashion, its closest competitor White House Black Market. Would she know anything about seduction? About sex appeal? Her conservative pantsuit hadn’t exactly helped her cause.

  Settling back in my chair, I close my eyes and picture her. Those pale pink lips, a faint tint of gloss, their constant press. She had been nervous, her fingers running over the top of her resume, her hands clenching and unclenching the portfolio, her eyes darting everywhere but my face. I’m not a stranger to nervous women; I’ve spent a lifetime using my looks to my advantage, my smile and words to fill in any gaps my appeal might contain. If I’d wanted to, I could have had Kate Martin. If I want to, I still could. Fuck the ring and the fiancé. No woman who wants to get married waits to set a date.

  “Literally or figuratively?” Something had flashed in her eyes when she had asked the question. The edge of her mouth had curled, the hint of a dimple appearing. In those three words, she had shown what hid beneath that stiff posture and nervous eyes. In those three words, she had shown spunk.

  I pull out her resume and close the folder, pushing aside the inappropriate thoughts that have plagued me since our meeting. My company is in trouble. I’m leveraged in ways that make me sweat, our assets dwindling, sales declining, morale at an all-time low. It doesn’t matter if Kate Martin is fuckable, willing, or engaged. I don’t need another fuck buddy. What I need—more importantly, what my company needs—is a savior.

  Could she be it?

  chapter 2

  Her

  “You got the job? Oh honey, that’s terrific!” My mother’s voice pumps out from my cell phone, and I can picture her legs moving, one hot pink lycra-ed leg before the other, her free hand swinging, as she moves down the street. “I am so proud of you! Do you like your new boss?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” I open the fridge and stare at the contents.

  “I’m sure you will, I can just feel it.” She inhales. “Plus, it’s a new moon tomorrow, and that will help.” There is the blare of a horn, and the muffled sound of her cursing. I put her on speaker and set the phone down on the counter. When she returns, her voice is bright and cheerful. “So! I’m assuming you gave L&L your two-week notice?”

  “I tried. They had security escort me out.”

  “What?” I can almost hear the screech of her tennis shoes against the pavement.

  “It’s standard, Mom. They don’t want me messing anything up on my way out.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. I’m so sorry, Kate.” She huffs into the phone.

  I find a box of stuffed green peppers in the freezer and pull it out. “Anyway, you can tell Jess tonight. It’s not a secret.”

  “Are you sure you can’t come? I’ve got plenty of food. And you can bring Craig! It’ll be fun.” Her voice pitches, as if in protest of her words, and I bite back a smile. There are many definitions of fun, but Craig and I—around my sister and her five kids—is never fun, at least not for him. It’s entertaining for Jess and me, especially if Mom’s pulled out the wine, but it is excruciatingly painful for him. And tonight, as much as I would enjoy seeing them all—I need some space, a quiet night to celebrate my time at Lavern & Lilly, and my fresh start at Marks Lingerie. “Another time. Give everyone a hug from me.”

  She promises to do so, and I turn on the oven as she hangs up. I call Craig, leaving him a voicemail with the good news, and then I go out to the garage, opening the car’s trunk and grabbing the first cardboard box, carrying it into the apartment before returning for the second, and then the third.

  Eleven years at L&L and all of it fits into three boxes. I open the first one, and pick through the contents. With the second box, I grab wine and put the green peppers in the oven. Before opening the third box, filled with nostalgia, I eat.

  I find a framed photo from just before my Parsons graduation, with my old best friends. Four of us, all with maxed out credit cards and big dreams, clinking sugar-rimmed martini glasses in a dark club somewhere in Manhattan. I haven’t looked at the photo in years, and haven’t spoken to them in almost that long. Meredith is in Seattle now, Jen is in Miami, and Julie and I got in a fight four years ago and haven’t spoken since. I wipe the dust off the frame and return it to the box, not interested in seeing it every day, not interested in feeling the pang of regret. Maybe I should call Julie. I take a long pull of wine and discard the idea. Truth be told, I haven’t really missed her.

  I sift through a pile of business cards, dropping a few of them into the kitchen trash. Maybe Craig and I can find new friends. He has a group he wants to join—Mensa—and brought home membership tests last week, his application already completed, typed into the form with neat precision. Apparently there are weekly events, parties where intelligence is tested and carefully orchestrated mingling occurs.

  I haven’t taken my membership test yet. It’s an IQ exam, one that ignores any fashion abilities or reality-tv knowledge. Craig has pushed me to take it, sending reminders by email, spare tests brought to every date. I almost took it yesterday, but I’m torn over whether or not to cheat on it. My conscience says no. My common sense says that it’s a stupid Mensa test and morals aren’t really in play, but my fiancé’s respect is. On the man’s eHarmony profile, he had “intelligence” as his most important quality, above cleanliness and personality. Before our first date, he had asked for my GMAT scores. I may have overinflated mine a teensy bit out of competitive pride.

  My phone buzzes, and my back stiffens out of habit, my mind steeling for Claudia’s voice, before I remember my resignation. I take a long sip of merlot and force
myself to relax before I reach for my cell. It’s a text from Craig.

  Just got your voicemail. Congratulations! Want me to come over to celebrate?

  I consider the offer, my eyes moving over the cardboard boxes, the vomit of my past all over the kitchen counters.

  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.