I step into a pair of black heels and stare at my reflection again.
You are crazy.
But crazy has never felt so seductive or sensual. That’s exactly how I look and precisely how I feel.
I do something else I’ve never done. I snap a sexy selfie, but it’s not a full body shot. It’s only a sliver of me, enough to show my thigh, the apron, and the tie around my waist.
It’s an appetizer.
Feeling daring and loving it, I send it to him.
Seconds later, my phone pings with a text.
Gabe: It’s now official. Let the record reflect, there is nothing sexier than an apron.
But what’s sexier is the next note he sends.
Gabe: Allow me to amend that. Nothing sexier than an apron on you. And while I’m giving official pronouncements, I’ll just add, so it’s clear: I CAN’T FUCKING WAIT TO SEE THE REST OF IT.
A knowing smile spreads across my face. I can’t wait for him to see it too.
Arden: I’m ready . . .
As I hit send, I let that word roll around my brain. Ready. I feel ready to answer the door. The food is cooked, the coconut bars are done, and now I'm going to live out a fantasy.
I'm not really sure why my fantasy has been to answer the door in an apron and little else. I think it’s the sheer incongruity of the moment. The idea that a woman can be cooking and working and reading, and then do something entirely risqué.
She can completely floor her man.
As I return to the kitchen to check that everything’s ready, I stop in my tracks like a cartoon character whacked into awareness by a frying pan.
Surprise.
I'm missing the element of surprise. I've already told him I’ll be wearing an apron.
I’ve detailed this fantasy. I’ve delineated every step. I sent him a freaking photo, for crying out loud. There’s no more mystery. There’s no gift for him to unwrap.
But that’s the fantasy—the surprise.
I want to witness the shock in his eyes.
I want to experience how his shock sends electricity shooting all over my body, reaching to every cell.
I want to stun him into . . . arousal.
When that stark truth hits my brain, I know I need to change my plans. I’m not sure what to do with all this desire, but I know what to do with the fantasy.
I scurry to my bedroom, untie the apron, and toss it onto the bed.
I slide off the cotton panties, rummage through my top drawer, and find something I bought for myself a few months ago. Something pretty, just for me.
A burgundy lace push-up bra, with matching low-rise panties.
That’s it.
I put them on.
The doorbell rings.
32
Arden
My nerves skyrocket, but they’re not only nerves. They’re fluttering hummingbirds, zinging around inside me. They’re desire, my desire to catch a fish rather than paint a fish.
I want the experience, all of it.
You can do this, I tell myself.
Then out loud, “I can do this.”
With my head high, I walk to the door in my heels, a sway to my hips, feeling confident, feeling sexy.
I peer through the peephole, and my world goes whoosh.
I ache as I look at him.
He wears well-worn jeans and a light-blue shirt that shows off his strong biceps and ropy forearms. He’s holding a bottle of sparkling white wine.
It goes well with a striptease, I told him the other night.
Through the peephole, I study him, and the tingles spread down my bare arms, because he looks like he wants to be here.
Only here.
Nowhere else.
There are no nerves in him, just some kind of wild hope, and I can feel that hope centered on me. At this moment, I know. He wants me the same way I want him.
Like we both wanted each other in the elevator.
What comes next?
I’m not sure of the answer.
But I’m sure of this new truth—that ache I feel isn’t only sexual. It’s a pull and a tug from deep inside me. Because of who he is, what he’s been to me, what we’ve done. Not only for the last several days, but the last year. I long for him in so many ways, and I hardly know what to do with this explosion of awareness, with this burst of feelings for him. Wildly intense feelings that make me want so much more than a striptease.
I do what I can do.
The practical.
I can open the door.
I reach for the knob and turn it. It creaks, and here goes nothing. I open the door all the way, as ready as I’ll ever be for the rest of the night to unfold, starting with my fantasy turned reality.
I glide one arm up the doorjamb so my hip juts out, and I give him my best seductive housewife pout. “Hey there. Dinner is on the table.”
He blinks and slides a hand across his stubbled jaw, as a strangled moan of appreciation slides past his lips.
His lips part, but he appears thoroughly incapable of words as his eyes travel up and down my body. Up and down, then back again, his gaze heating me up, sizzling my skin. After a few more tours of duty, he stops at my face, his baby blues shimmering with desire. “I’m ready for dinner. And for dessert.”
His words come out hot and heavy, and the weight of them makes my pulse soar.
I gesture to my outfit. “I guess this meets your approval.”
“This meets every seal of approval in the world.”
I’ve never heard his voice sound so husky. The rasp in it feeds me. It moves through me, giving me another dose of confidence, another serving of naughtiness.
I bring my hand to my mouth, an exaggerated Betty Boop move. “Oh no! You were expecting me in an apron. Oops!” I raise a finger, the sign to wait. “I’ll be right back.”
I turn on my heels, giving him a view of my barely-covered derriere as I saunter back to my bedroom.
33
Gabe
There’s a fire extinguisher handy. I bought her extras a few months ago when I installed additional smoke alarms too.
Pretty sure they’re going off right now.
Because I am en fuego.
That ass.
Those legs.
Those curves.
Yes, it’s a five-alarm raging in my body as I stare, slack-jawed, at my good friend while she turns the corner into her bedroom.
Evidently, I’m still a gentleman since I don’t go chase her in there. I wait, like a good boy. Or, really, like a dinosaur of the cock-a-saurus rex variety.
She’s magnificent in all her nearly naked glory, and even though I was panting like a dog to see her in the apron, her switcheroo worked.
Hell, did it ever work. I tug at the neck of my shirt. I try in vain to adjust myself in my jeans.
No luck. Her effect on me is stubbornly self-evident, and I’m damn sure I’m not going to be able to erase the image of her barely covered body from my brain any time soon.
Nor do I want to.
Shoes click against the hardwood floor, and she emerges, stopping at the end of the hallway, gesturing to her new ensemble. “Is this better?”
A small black apron covers her front and her belly, reaching down to mid-thigh.
I walk to her and take yet another liberty when I get there, running a hand down her bare arm. “Everything you wear looks amazing, and if you ever open the door in lingerie, or in this, whoever is lucky enough to be on the other side is going to be one happy motherfucker.”
A slow smile spreads, and her eyes stay on mine. Like she doesn’t want to look away.
“Thank you.” Her words are soft and breathy, and they ghost across my skin, weaving around me. She takes my hand, squeezes. “I mean it, Gabe. Thank you. For all of this.” She waves around at her house, and I furrow my brow.
“What do you mean?”
She takes a breath as if she’s fortifying herself. “For letting me try new things.”
My heart vaults out of my chest, skidding at her feet. “You don’t have to thank me.”
She swallows. “But I do. You’re my friend, and that means you make me feel safe, but somehow, you make me feel beautiful too. I don’t know how you do it, but you do.”
I close my eyes for a second, processing her words. It’s no mystery to me why I make her feel beautiful. None whatsoever, but I need to demystify it for her, and soon.
I shake my head, trying to form words.
“What is it?” Her voice rises.
I take a breath, look at her again. It’s hard to look away. “Thank you for trusting me to be the one you try new things with.”
“There’s no one else I’d want as a guide.”
No one else.
The one.
That’s what I want. For all her explorations to begin and end with me. “But there is one more thing you wanted to try, I believe?”
“What is that?” Curiosity weaves through her tone.
I make a circling gesture with my finger. “Turn around, Arden.”
A wicked grin takes hold of her mouth and widens. She spins halfway.
I point to the living room wall. “Hands against the wall.”
She bends forward, dipping into a beautiful, enticing L. I move behind her, sucking in a harsh breath through my teeth as I enjoy the peek at her ass, her cheeks barely covered by the lace panties.
“Ready?”
“So ready.” A tremble moves through her body, and it’s the most sensual thing I’ve ever seen. It’s evidence, the physical manifestation of all I’ve been seeing in her eyes these last few days. A true and real desire. All I can think about is whether one quick slide of my hand to cup her between her legs would reveal if she’s on the edge too.
But that’s not what I said I’d do.
Instead, I raise my hand then lower it, swatting her ass.
“Oh!” she yelps.
I rub my hand over the flesh. “Did it hurt?”
She nods. “But do it again.”
I laugh. “You little junkie.”
I swat her other cheek then soothe it with my palm.
I’m so damn tempted to plant a kiss on those pink cheeks. To grab her luscious ass and squeeze hard. But this will have to suffice, and if I’m doing it right, I’ll leave her wanting more.
I give one more swat then grab her waist, yank her up, and whisper, “Now feed me, woman.”