Even na**d and aroused, I was still annoyed he'd refused to talk even just a little bit about his former life, and holding something back made me feel like I had more control over the situation than I did.
The truth was, I had no control at all.
Part 3: Take Your Teddy to Work
I kicked Trevor out of my house early on Sunday, so I could get everything tidied up before my parents returned from the lake.
Nikki came over, as she does every Sunday for family dinner, and the four of us sat on the back patio, even though the weather had turned cool. We all wore heavy jackets and joked about Dad using the barbecue in the snow that would be along soon.
Later, after dinner and dishes, Nikki and I retired to my bedroom to talk in private, without my mother and her plans to get one or both of us married off. She'd already asked, during dinner, if Trevor had any nice siblings, cousins, or friends for Nikki.
Nikki and I sat cross-legged on my bed, and I told her about my exciting visit to the show suite.
She rolled onto her back, convulsing with laughter. “No way! That's why we have three staff on all the time, to keep people from doing it on the display bed!”
“We didn't even touch the bed, at least.”
She snorted.
“Don't tell anyone!” I immediately regretted telling her, since she worked for Trevor, and he didn't want his staff to know he broke the rules.
Nikki finally stopped laughing and said, “Okay, tell me about his you-know-what.”
“I thought you didn't want to know. That it would be icky for you, since you know him.”
“Yeah, but now I wanna know. Like, does the hairy part … does the hair go up onto his you-know-what?”
“His penis? Yes, a little bit.”
“Doesn't that scratch your vagina?”
“Not if I'm really wet, no. And he gets me really wet.”
At that, she pretended to throw up in her mouth. “Okay, enough details,” she said. “No more, that's enough.”
After a moment, I said, “Do you think he still loves his wife?”
“Wouldn't it make you respect him more if he still cared about her?”
“That's not what I asked.”
She twisted her lips, and then, finally, said, “He mentioned, once, that he'd always love her, no matter what. That he would always want for her to be happy, which was partly why he let her go.”
I shrugged and said, “Oh well, whatever. At least the sex is totally hot and I'm going to have a good time for now. Transitional phase, right?”
She rolled onto her stomach on my bed, put her chin on her hand and said, “You look more grown up now. I like this thing you're doing with your hair, so natural. I'm glad the weird blue dye is gone, and you look really healthy and happy. I think Trevor's been good for you.”
“Not been good. Is good.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
Feeling annoyed, I said, with consternation in my voice, “How come you think this is a rebound and Mom thinks we're going to get married? How can our perspectives be so vastly different?”
“I don't know,” she said. “Relationships, sis. Who knows!”
On Monday, I talked to some of my work friends about dating and divorce, but nobody told me what I wanted to hear. They said it would take years for a person to get over a marriage.
To cheer myself up, I tilted my monitor away from the door of my cubicle and read celebrity gossip on the internet all afternoon. Hollywood people didn't take years to get over a marriage. They were always getting right back into the dating scene. Not that Hollywood people are excellent role models or anything, but it did cheer me up to see people rushing headlong into new relationships.
I hadn't heard from Trevor, so I got out my cell phone near the end of the day and started to send him a text message. At first, it was just a boring hello, and then, inspiration struck, and I sent him a snapshot down my shirt, of my cle**age and bra.
I got a text back immediately.
It read: Panties?
I sent him back a text: Not wearing any.
(I was actually wearing some, as well as corduroy trousers, but that didn't sound nearly as flirty.)
Trevor: Damn.
Me: I wish I had something to suck on.
Trevor: Like what?
Me: I could go for a toe right now.
Trevor: Damn.
Me: You should come visit me at my work.
Trevor: Yeah.
Me: Yeah. I saw an interesting side of your work, and now I should show you mine.
Trevor: Your sister keeps asking me questions.
Me: Tell her to mind her own beeswax. What are you wearing?
Trevor: I've got your address.
Me: … so ... you're coming here?
Trevor: Maybe.
Me: I actually am wearing panties.
Trevor: I will take them off. I will bite them off.
Me: !!!
Trevor: On my way.
I put away the phone and immediately the butterflies started up in my stomach. I was off work in fifteen minutes, and based on where his office was, he'd be arriving just as everyone was finishing up for the day. It wasn't at all unusual for people to have friends come by, because the place was interesting. Not the office, of course, but the theater and the backstage areas, the costume departments, and even the control rooms.
When I'd texted Trevor to suggest doing naughty things with him at my work, I'd been joking! And now he was coming over.
And I'd promised … toe sucking.
Oh, Naomi, you silly girl.
He was a little later than expected, which was a relief, because most of the people were gone from the office and half the lights were turned out. He was dressed up way more than I'd ever seen him. On our dates, he'd been in casual but stylish clothes. Today, he wore an actual suit. A big, tall suit.
As he leaned down to give me a friendly, lingering kiss, I felt the pang in my sex, the desire. I ran my arms along his sides, under his suit jacket, and up his back. I nuzzled his chest and said, “You smell nice. Are you always dressed like this for work?”
“Had some important meetings,” he said. “But that's all dealt with, and it's time to blow off some steam.” As he said that, his hand scooped down over my bu**ocks and below, squeezing me and pulling me up to meet his lips for another kiss.
The sound of the cleaning lady's cart and its squeaky wheels broke us from our embrace. I felt light-headed again, woozy from the kissing and from my excitement for him.
I showed him around the now-empty office, from my modest cubicle, which he didn't seem too impressed by, to the shared kitchenette, which impressed him even less. “Laminate,” he said, squeezing one of the cabinet doors in his big hand.
“This is the art world,” I reminded him. “This little kitchen cost us less than your suit, I bet.”