She’s mesmerized, and her stare heats my blood, driving me on. I stalk over to her, park my hands on my waist, and wait.
Her lips part, and my memory serves up the delicious reminder of how intoxicating she tastes. How sweet she kisses. How softly she sighs.
I clench my fists, staving off my desire.
She lifts her hands, but she doesn’t undo the top two buttons. She plays with them. Her fingertips fiddle with the first one, toying with it, and with me. With each stroke of her fingers on the buttons, she’s also running her fingers over my body, across inches of my chest.
Even through my shirt, she’s turning me on.
Like that’s a surprise.
“I like these buttons,” she says, as if hypnotized.
“Yeah,” I say, since I can’t really form any other words, let alone thoughts.
She’s transfixed, fondling the fucking buttons, and it’s driving me insane with lust. If she keeps this up, I might die from it.
“They’re so shiny, and they feel so good,” she whispers, like she’s in a dream. “Who knew buttons felt like this?”
Her voice is like honey, and I want to taste her lips again. Taste her skin. Kiss her everywhere.
That’s the problem.
This experiment needs to end before I hit indecent levels on the arousal meter.
“Take it off,” I tell her, because I can’t handle this much longer.
Slowly, seductively, she undoes the first button. A flash of heat crosses her blue eyes. Maybe it’s desire.
Did I imagine it?
Is she feeling it too?
Her hands move quickly but strategically, and she undoes another button, then one more, and when she tugs this time, there’s a plink on the hardwood.
She flinches in delighted surprise.
Another button.
This one goes ping on her floor.
And then the rest are flying across her apartment.
Ping, ping, ping.
She’s laughing and grinning and staring at the button carnage. “Holy smokes. It worked. It really worked.”
I’ve never seen her this excited. “Damn, woman. You did it,” I say, taking in the trail of shiny objects on the floor of her place.
She gazes at them, then at me. “I guess it was the fancy shirt?”
I cock my head. “Was it?”
“Actually, no.” She shakes her head, like she’s processing what just went down. “For that last one, I think I felt like the heroine in the novel, and that’s what did it.”
Oh God.
Oh hell.
Oh, fuck me.
I want to dissect that six ways to Sunday. I want to read all sorts of meanings into her remark.
No, I want to read one particular meaning into it. But I have to protect myself. This is merely acting.
None of this is real.
After she snaps a picture of the buttons, I put on my armor, pick up the carnage, and pull on a gray T-shirt. I turn the evening in another direction, because it’s the only way I can survive this project.
By not reading into it. “Want to have that popcorn?”
“I do,” she says with a smile, then she raises the lights and grabs the beer she bought me. We head to the couch and break open the snack bag.
“Ladies first,” I say, and as she dips her hand into the bag, it feels like a postcoital cigarette.
I grab a handful of popcorn and chew. “I am indeed a salty forever.”
“I know you so well,” she says, and that’s the real postcoital afterglow. Because the popcorn isn’t only popcorn. It’s evidence that she knows me.
That she wanted me to have what I like.
That she wanted me to enjoy this night.
As I regard her on the couch, legs tucked under her, munching on snacks, grinning happily, I hate that I’m aware once again of how different she is from every other woman I’ve ever been attracted to.
How warm and open and honest. How giving and caring and loving.
How wonderfully, fantastically different she is.
But learning that anew is exactly what my heart doesn’t need. If I stay here, I’ll let the popcorn and beer trick me, like the cologne did years ago.
And popcorn is just a snack. Beer is only a drink.
None of these gifts are signs.
Life doesn’t give you signs.
Life gives you potholes, and you have to navigate around them without crashing.
After a thirsty sip of the brew and a few more handfuls of kernels, I scoot away from the pothole of desire. “I have to take off.”
Her expression morphs into sadness. “You do?”
“Barrett will be home soon,” I say, fashioning a plausible excuse.
She frowns. “Too bad. I was going to see if you wanted to watch The Walking Dead or something,” she says, making me wish once more that I could convince myself to stay.
“Rain check?” I take the empty bottle to the kitchen, setting it in the recycling bin.
“Of course. Go see Barrett,” she says, shooing me to the door.
“Let me know when the next session is.”
“How’s Thursday?”
Grabbing my phone, I make a show of looking at the calendar, tapping my chin, and furrowing my brow. “Let’s see. If I move this meeting with a supplier, then if I change my Zumba class, and maybe I can skip flower arranging—”
She clears her throat dramatically.
“Ah yes. I can fit you in at seven fifteen on Thursday. Seems I have an opening then,” I say, hoping a little humor will sweep away the lust cloud chasing me.
“Thanks for finding a window,” she says, laughing. “Now leave before I kick you out.”
“You’d never kick me out.”
“I know,” she says softly, so softly.
And I know it’s true. I grab the bag of clothes, and I go.
Barrett’s not home when I return. He’s still at play practice, and he won’t be back for another hour.
I knew that.
This little white lie is for the best.
Trouble is, I can’t wait for Thursday. Especially when she texts me and tells me how much she’s looking forward to the test she wants to run that night.
So am I.
God help me, so am I.
12
Peyton
The Lingerie Devotee: Do Try This at Home
Blog entry
Lavender is for possibilities.
It’s what you wear when you’re an explorer, traveling across new boundaries, entering a new land.
Lavender’s not brash. It’s subtle, encouraging you to try new things.
And try I did.
Last night, I conducted a tasty new experiment.
After all, who hasn’t wondered if life could play out like the pages of a romance novel?
The ones where the good stuff goes down.
Where shirts come off and buttons fly.
And I am here to tell you, they can indeed soar.
Powered by lace and lavender, I put on my best bold self, walked across the living room, and tore at a handsome man’s shirt.
Okay, moment of truth.
The first time, nothing happened.
The second instance? I ripped the cheap shirt down the middle, leaving two sad shards.
But the third time?
Oh yes, it was a charm.
The buttons flew.