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“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.
