Chapter Twenty-Two
To Flick’s consternation, Wren had seen it and called it. They’d been alone on the balcony while Josh and Tom talked Rendel politics in the kitchen. “Tom is into you in a big way,” Wren had said.
There was no point in Flick denying it. “I didn’t know what exactly he’d told you.”
“He told me you were roommates, that you’d hooked up but it was over. It’s so not over.”
“We’re going at it like rabbits.”
Wren squealed. “Oh—go, girl!” Tom and Josh both looked around and she made a shooing motion at them, and when they’d gone back to their huddle she raised her hand and they high-fived. “All that repressed tension.” Wren gave a little shudder. “Not my thing, but I can see the attraction. I’m glad you’re around. He would’ve brooded for longer after they shafted him on his promotion. He’s stubborn and sometimes you have to push him.” She’d grinned at Flick. “But you know that.”
The most stubborn heart she’d ever encountered. “It’s almost over.”
“Does Tom know how you feel about him?” Inside Josh was wine-testing. Wren put her back to him and looked out at the view. “It’s none of my business and it didn’t work out for me. I told Josh I was in love with him. It’s true, I am. I didn’t know how he felt about me. I mean, I knew he loved me, and that he likes men, but I didn’t know if maybe—anyway, I didn’t want to die without knowing for sure.”
“That was brave.”
Wren closed her eyes. “It was bad. He panicked. I panicked. He doesn’t love me like that. We stopped talking, didn’t know how to relate to each other, couldn’t be in the same room for months. It was a nightmare at work. Tom was stuck in the middle of it. I’m sure it freaked him out, but was never anything but supportive.”
“You got past it.”
“Josh got past it. What could he do? But yes, it was worse not being friends. It’s easier with him in Beijing.” Wren turned again, put her back against the railing and gestured toward the kitchen at Tom. “He won’t know how to tell you how he feels. He won’t assume you feel anything for him, but that’s because he’s stupid about these things. Brilliant at work, never hesitates, makes good decisions, but socially, with people, it’s like his compass is broken. It’s so obvious you’re into each other in a big way. I could be making too much of it and you should tell me to butt out, or you could turn out to be Josh and me, but you know, maybe not.”
“I leave in thirteen days.”
“You’re going to quit seeing each other altogether? Josh moved six and a half thousand miles away—Chicago to Washington is more like six hundred miles.”
“Do you know anyone who made a long-distance fling work?”
Wren grimaced. “They fizzle.”
That’s not how Flick wanted to end things with Tom. They could be long-distance friends, keep up on social media, be messenger buddies, but those six hundred miles might as well have been six million.
Wren said all that before the Kingston, Lam, O’Connell toast, before it was obvious that these three friends enjoyed working with each other and wanted to again. Tom was never going to leave Rendel, and settling for something long-distance was setting a timer on its extinction. Seeing him with Wren and Josh made that as vivid as a sunset.
The thing was to focus on the coupons and what fun they could get up to at Lulu’s.
The lingerie store was styled like a boudoir with red velvet love seats and padded chaise lounges, elaborately framed mirrors and enormous stands of fragrant lilies. It looked exclusive and expensive, and was both. Flick had been there for a bridal party once, but she knew the store had a menu of services and did a roaring trade in bachelors’ party lingerie parades. She’d booked a private dressing room. She’d also chosen a selection of lingerie she thought Tom might like, pre-buying three pieces she intended to keep.
And she wore heels.
Because the thing about the private dressing suite was less about the lingerie and more about the privacy.
“It’s very...” Tom was lost for words. A hostess wearing a gorgeous cream satin ’40s-style dress had greeted them, and while Flick checked in, Tom sat on a red velvet love seat, like a massive boulder perched on a pebble, and peered at the place from under lowered brows looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Once they were shown to their suite, he stopped acting like he might turn tail and bolt, taking a seat on the chaise lounge, this one made from highly stylized padded vinyl, the reason for which would become obvious to him any minute. Hopefully.
The small room included a table for their refreshments—a bowl of strawberries and champagne on ice—an elaborate dressing screen behind which was the lingerie Flick had chosen, and a tablet with a music menu and playlists labeled Lust, Raunch, Sex, Love and A Good Time.
That got his eyes to pop.
“You were thinking we’d cruise the underwear rack at Bloomingdale’s?” she said.
“I don’t know what I was thinking, but it wasn’t this.”
“You feel out of place?”
He jerked his head to indicate the showroom. “Out there, yeah. It’s a room full of women’s underwear. I didn’t know where to look.”
“It’s just underwear.”
“No, it’s not. This isn’t shopping, it’s—”
As long as he didn’t say torture.
“A seduction.”
They had the suite for an hour. “Are you seduced?” Silly question. He looked about as enticed as an egg to a frying pan.
“I’m cautiously optimistic.”
She’d have to work at this, crack the heart of his discomfort. She chose a sugar-powdered strawberry from the bowl, and offered it to him. He moved to take it from her hand and she pulled it away wanting his mouth. He caught on, shifting forward, and she fed him the strawberry, feeling his lips graze her fingers. His eyes up to hers.
That was more like it. She leaned down and kissed him, a gentle whisk of a kiss that tasted sweet. “You choose the music while I change.”
She went behind the screen and there was a blast of Pharrell Williams’s “Happy.” She guessed that was the good-time playlist. Then she heard the opening hiss and screech of Prince’s “Cream,” but it cut out and there was the orchestral opening of Madonna’s “Justify My Love.” He’d gone old-school. He settled on George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex,” and then silenced it abruptly after the first line of the chorus.
“Anything you pick will be fine,” she called.
He grumbled something under the opening notes of Usher singing “Trading Places.”
She’d chosen an emerald babydoll, a black lace teddy and nude lace bra-and-panty set. Lulu’s supplied a short black silk kimono-style robe to make the experience more of a tease.
She poked her head around the screen. “Are you comfortable out there now?” She was stalling.
“About as comfortable as I’d be in a police lineup.”
She was down to her own underwear. Without the pre-purchase, she’d have had to have worn her own panties underneath, and that would’ve spoiled the show.
He gave her a strained smile. She went for reassurance. “The door is locked, no one is going to check on us. This is our space and time.”
He shot a look at the door as if he’d only now realized someone else coming in was a possibility. She’d have to help him relax one way or another, but in the meantime, he was making her nervous. The idea was to show him what she’d chosen. It wasn’t a literal interpretation of the coupon; he didn’t get to choose, and this wasn’t coming at his cost, but it was close enough. And it meant parading her choices in front of him. He’d seen her naked often enough, so that shouldn’t be a problem, except Tom felt out of place in this love hotel of a lingerie store, so maybe what would be obvious to him wasn’t the seduction but her imperfections.
The song changed, Miley Cyrus singing “Adore You”—was it the love playlist? She hesitated over what to show him first, settling on the babydoll with its sheer fabric dress and the matching lace panties. It was a gorgeous color, and the way the fabric gathered under the bust meant it wasn’t too pornographic, though she could definitely make out her nipples in the full-length mirror. You could read her tattoo, see the blue of the turquoise in her belly barbell. The broken capillaries on her hip were camouflaged, but the skirt rode higher than the burn scar on her thigh. He’d seen it, laid his palm over it, traced the edge of it with his tongue, but right now she felt like she was exposing it for the first time.
“Flick?”
“I’m nearly ready.” She was feeding off Tom’s anxiety and that wouldn’t do. Miley became Ariana Grande singing “Dangerous Woman” and that was the fortification she needed. She was ready. She didn’t bother with the robe, just stepped out from behind the screen in her heels.
Tom sat with his feet planted wide, knees open, his elbows resting on his thighs and hands clasped. His eyes were down. He looked contained, but she knew he worked to give that impression. She was so edgy her throat was tight and her hands tingled.
“Tom.”
Up came his head. “Jesus.” It came out a whisper, and she had the impression he wasn’t aware he’d said it. She turned in a circle and he cleared his throat and his hands opened out to her. She took two steps forward and his fingers grazed the backs of her knees. “That’s, ah, pretty.”
His eyes were all lit up, and his palms cradled the backs of her thighs. She wasn’t jumpy anymore. “I’m glad you like it.”
“More than like it.” He put his face straight to her belly and his hands shifted to her ass, thumbs tucking under the elasticized lace. “You look like a dream in this.”
“There are two more to show you.”
“I’m not finished with this one.” He brushed the back of his hand over her nipple. “When would you wear this?”
Anytime I wanted to have fun with you. There wasn’t a lot of time left.
“To bed.”
“With me.”
She put her hand to his cheek. “With you.” It was going to take some time before she wanted to wear it for someone else.
“Not sure of the point. It’s lovely, but it wouldn’t be on you for long.”
“The point is me feeling sexy in it.”
He did the thing with the back of his hand again and then cupped her breast, his thumb brushing back and forth over her. “Does it make you feel sexy?”
Impossible not to feel desirable, and that had nothing to do with the babydoll’s fabric, style or color and everything to do with the way he touched her, looked at her. “Yes.”
“And then the point of it is me wanting to take it off you.”
“Built-in versatility.”
“I’m beginning to understand.”
Maybe Wren was wrong. Maybe this connection they had was strong enough that Tom would want it to go on, despite distances. Why didn’t she trust that?
He pulled her in for a kiss and then let her go. Beyoncé was singing “Drunk in Love” when she stepped out from the screen in the robe and the black lace teddy. It fitted like the most risqué swimsuit. It was made of floral lace with inserts of fishnet over the hips. It was nipped in at the waist with a satin band and the demi-cup bra had satin piping and straps. There was almost as much of her breasts out of the cups as in, but otherwise it was tasteful, with enough ass coverage to make her feel confident.
“Ditch the robe,” he said. In-control Tom had replaced uncomfortable Tom. It made her stomach flip with excitement.
She ditched the robe, letting it slide off her shoulders to the floor, and turned around so he could see the cutout of a heart over her back.
He was off the lounge and had her in his arms before she could finish her turn. She didn’t need to worry how he felt, she had all the evidence of his arousal she needed. He pulled on the messy bun of her hair till she rested her head on his chest, his hands skimming her body carefully. “This should come with a hazard warning.”
She wound her arms up over his neck and they kissed until he groaned and stepped away, rubbing his face. “Go put some more clothes on before I compromise your safety.” He scooped the robe off the floor and held it out to her.
She took it out of his hand and disappeared behind the screen for her last change. The underwear she’d chosen was pretty rather than overtly sexy, but she paired it with a suspender belt and thigh-high stockings and took her hair down, and she liked what she saw, the effect innocent by way of please debauch me.
Tom clamped his teeth on his knuckle when she stepped out from the screen to Ciara’s “Ride.” They’d hit the raunch portion of the session. He was on the lounge, that wide-legged position men with long legs did, that let her walk between his knees and put her hand in his hair to pull his head back.
“Deadly weapon,” he said before she kissed him, bent forward, openmouthed and needy, the slow rock beat perfect for the way she felt as he pulled her closer and she went to her knees. Tom pushed the robe off her shoulders, the slither of the silk down her back making her shiver, the scent of him, his big hands on her, everything about this making it impossible not to vibrate with want. Would he let her blow him?
She reached for his belt and he let go a delicious groan; she almost whooped for the joy of it.
“Here?” he rasped, but he didn’t stop her hands massaging him through his briefs, tugging at them to put her mouth to the head of his penis. “Ah, Flick.”
She sucked, and he took a fistful of her hair, at first to keep her there, but as she started to taste him, to pull her away. “We can’t,” he said, voice so cut with want she almost fought him for control.
She sat back on her heels. “They expect us to have sex in here.”
He blinked at her and then laughed as the recognition dawned. “In here?”
“It’s a love hotel with lingerie.”
“Goddamn, then let’s do that.” He motioned her onto his lap, her knees either side of his hips. “Let me have you how I like best, in my arms, mouth to mouth, where I can use my hands, where I can feel all of you.”
No argument with that. She wrestled his shirt off. He kissed her face, her neck and then a slow line from her jaw down her throat and between her breasts. His hand was at her back, fingers feeling and not finding what he wanted. He growled against the swell of her breast.
“It’s at the front.”
No time lost finding the clasp, undoing it and sliding the bra off her shoulders. A lot of time spent nuzzling, licking, sucking, tiny bites that thrilled more than threatened, and a slow grind of their bodies that built and built until Tom pushed the elastic of her panties to one side and eased inside her.
She was so wet and so full. His forehead dropped to her shoulder. “So good, Flick, I don’t want to move.”
He would, or she’d make him, but for the moment, she held on tight to this tenderness, knowing that when they moved it would explode her world. She should tell him, tell him what she felt and let him decide what it meant. She should tell him, and she’d know if she could afford to cling or needed to steel herself to say goodbye.
This thing they had shifted from friendship in high gear once they’d hit the sheets, and with each coupon the revs went higher, the connection intensified. She knew Tom was as mad for the sex as she was, she knew he cared for her, loved their time together. They would never be strangers again, but that might be all he felt and before she spun out of control she had to know.
She was still trying to connect thought to reason, reason to words, to explain what she felt, when he claimed her mouth, her tongue, seconds before he lifted her, still joined to him, and brought her down on her back on the lounge.
With an experimental thrust he shuddered, eyes on where their bodies locked. He’d get extra friction from the elastic leg of her panties. “If we ruin these we’ll buy more,” he said.
On his knees, he ran a hand down her thigh to her calf over the stocking. She still had her heels on. “Leave these. My God, you’re so hot.” A hand to her stomach, a caress. “Your body, what it does to me—” He lowered over her, lip to lip. “The way your brain works. Excites me more than I have words for. I can’t keep up with you. I had a fantasy scene all picked out, saved that coupon, but after this, I know it’s not enough for you. I’m not enough.”
No, no, no. Compliments and love sentiments wrapped in a version of reality she didn’t share with him. “You’re enough, Tom. More than enough.” These games and fantasies worked because of him, because he was easy to please and willing to let her lead, and played along so nicely.
He thrust and she brought her knees up, taking him deeper, the elastic biting into her hip, grazing meanly along that soft line of flesh inside her thigh where her leg met her body, but she didn’t want to stop, give him any opportunity to doubt. He thrust again and the panties gave with a ripping sound, and she gasped as the sharp discomfort flipped into shocking pleasure. Tom was lost inside his desire and the drive to come, and she was there with him, shuddering, bucking, breathing in snatches, clenching and urging him on with everything she had, and hitting her peak with his name thudding in her heart, screaming in her mind, and loud from her lips.
They ran overtime and someone did knock on the door to hurry them along. Her panties were shredded. They’d fucked the lounge several feet across the room and she’d gouged an angry seam down Tom’s hip and butt with her heel.
She saw it when he stood to fix his pants, reaching out to trace it. “I gave you a sex wound.”
He twisted around to look and then grinned at her. “Only fair we both lose some skin in this game. I think they heard you shout my name in Pittsburgh.”
Game? A turn of speech or an insight into his thinking? She studied his face. He was happy and that’s what this coupon was about. It was what all of them were about, an excuse for them to come together, an agenda to keep them focused. A pattern Tom would recognize, a commitment, a calendar event. It was so much more for her, but for him?
At the service counter a sassy hostess called him by his first name when he paid for new panties in several colors, and he blushed, going pink from the collar of his T-shirt to his hairline.
“She’s looking at your credit card,” Flick whispered, loving his reaction.
He shook his head and turned his card so she could see it said Mr. T. M. O’Connell.
She shrugged, trying not to laugh. “Lucky guess.”
He pinched her ass and then pulled her into his arms, but did nothing more than stare down at her with a puzzled expression that was unsettling. The game, if that’s all it was, had hit the final quarter, eleven coupons remaining and overdue for analysis.
The hostess coughed.
“Creeping everyone out,” Flick said.
He frowned and released her. “Can’t have that.”
On the walk home, she tried to coax him into opening up. She made a poor can opener. Not his fault—he kept up his end, but her questions were fumbled and fell halfway between an interrogation and flirtation and it confused him. It frustrated her. She ended up making ridiculous guesses at his middle name. Melvin, Montgomery, Murgatroyd, Maximilian, Maverick. It was Michael, and she’d figured it would be. Why was that so easy and speaking her mind so difficult?
She had to give clients advice that was far more complex, with serious ramifications, every day. In Washington, she’d be selling an unpopular agenda to people in power who had every reason to consider her an irrelevant interruption and she’d get them to listen, but she couldn’t tell the man who held her hand she was in love with him. All of him. The take-charge career guy, and the more socially reticent one. The man who liked his disciplined routine, and the one who would willingly experiment with her, even when it sometimes made him feel uncomfortable.
Once they were inside the apartment he retreated to the kitchen and moved the conversation on to safer ground, and she let the topic rest.
It weighed on her. Like anything else in her life that was unresolved, it kept her awake, long after Tom was asleep. She stayed in bed, not wanting to wake him and have him follow her out to the kitchen again, but close to dawn she broke.
Tom had left the remaining coupons lined up in order on the coffee table. As they’d neared the end, he’d shuffled the cardboard tags around less, satisfied with their order and the narrative between them they created. The next coupon in line was a sixty-nine.
A complete circle. It was a sign of how thoroughly dumb it was she was tolerating this imperfect knowledge. She wasn’t losing any more sleep over it, wallowing around in indecision of her own making. She snatched the I Tell You a Secret coupon up and went back to the bedroom. She woke him with kisses to his prickly jaw, well before the alarm was due to go off.
Before he could weigh her down with long arms she loved, with returned kisses she craved, she sat over his legs and slapped the coupon on his chest. “We need to do this one.”
He picked it up and squinted at it. “Okay, but you’re sure you don’t want to tell me your secret while we’re lying in the dark with time on our hands, not about to get organized for work?”
“I love you.”
“We could...” His words died, and he sat up and took her shoulders in his hands.
“I love you. Fell in love with you. Am in love with you. There it is. I don’t know if that’s a secret to you or something you worked out, but it needed to be said.”
“Ah.” He screwed up his eyes; his mouth was a flat line of disapproval and he held a hand to his head. “It’s early.”
It was almost twelve weeks of getting to know each other, living together. It might be early for Tom, but not for Flick.
“It’s, ah. I’m not awake.”
It would be fair, if she believed that. Fair of him to react so flatly if she’d ambushed him, and sure, she’d sprung the coupon and the announcement, but it wasn’t like he didn’t have ample warning, and he was an intuitive guy. He either felt the same way as she did, or he didn’t. There was no gray area in this.
“Flick, give me a chance to...”
She didn’t hear the rest of his sentence. It was a variation of wake up, get dressed, think about it and I’ll get back to you.
She rocked forward and kissed his cheekbone. “It’s fine.” Now she knew. “I’m going to the gym.”
He didn’t stop her, and when she got back from making herself sick on the treadmill, he was gone.