My mind snags on something from my emails earlier today. One of our partners wanted to see if they could move up the launch of a new line of candy-colored corsets in time for the fall, a pre-holiday push, but the marketing still feels a little off. Have your cake and wear it, too is a cute slogan for the collection, but every model we’re using in the print campaign looks like she hasn’t eaten cake in at least seven years. Maybe eight. I would prefer the marketing package hit an inclusive note, to embrace all body sizes and all women, be they stick thin or curvy and full-figured. We’ve built our high-end brand on that message and can’t stray too far. Adored’s brand mystique has to remain top-notch.
I share my thought process with Brian, and he nods his agreement. “With a reshoot and a few positioning adjustments, we might be able to pull this off,” I say, a burst of excitement zipping through me, as it so often does when I feel the possibilities of what I can do in this business.
I started Adored for three reasons. One, I wanted to build a company I loved from the ground up, applying all my business acumen to the sole goal of making my venture so wildly successful that no one in my family would have to worry about money ever again.
I’ve checked that off.
Two, I fucking adore women, especially in lingerie, and particularly when lingerie is doing its job making them feel sexy and beautiful.
And three, I wanted to work with my best friend. We accomplished that, and part of me wants to fight to keep Adored independent because of Sean. I know he would have wanted that, too.
This presentation on the new line will be key to getting the board excited about my vision for Adored, so they can see that selling out is not an option.
After we’ve finished laying out a plan for campaign adjustments and Brian leaves, I check the clock, pleased that it’s now T-minus seven hours till launch. I’m ready to give myself an A-plus for kicking ass at the office today. Maybe women and work haven’t been meshing for me lately, but hell, it sure seems that night school is better than an iced coffee for focus.
Note to self: if you ever change careers, consider being a sex tutor. It streamlines the focus and keeps your dick in the game.
As the clock ticks past three, I review the design for some new panties. Tilting my head, I study the way the lace skims high on the thighs of the model. How it slides between her legs. How there’s just enough of a pattern to leave most of what’s underneath to the imagination.
And my imagination goes to CJ.
What does she wear under those cute T-shirts? What does she sleep in? I’m imagining her in bed in her snug apartment in the Meatpacking District, sliding under the covers in a burgundy baby doll, dark against her pale skin. It’d ride up to her belly, revealing kissable flesh.
A barely audible groan escapes my throat. Thank fuck my door is closed because I’m staring at the screen as if it’s the best porn reel around.
But it’s not the panties on the screen that do it for me.
It’s the movie in my mind.
I’m undressing CJ, discovering she wears a pale-blue push-up bra with flowers embroidered into it, the demi cups ensuring her tits spill over the tops. I’m seeing a pair of matching panties with delicate patterns and sheer lace.
In the lingerie business, you learn that every woman is an individual when it comes to her sensuality. Some want to lead with bold animal prints, others crave delicate flowers. Some love unapologetic, make-no-mistake-what’s-on-my-mind black, while others covet bright, fiery red or soft, pale pink.
I know what I would like to see CJ in, but I also want to learn how she sees herself.
What does she slide on beneath her clothes to make her feel confident and beautiful? What brings out her seductive side? Has she even figured out the power of a well-chosen panty and bra set?
Maybe that’s something I can help her with, too, and give myself something to look forward to in the process.
I pick up the phone and arrange for a special delivery.
Chapter Seven
CJ
This could be it. The night everything changes. The night I start the journey from Behind the Sex Curve to Head of the Fucking Class.
Assuming, of course, that the gift box Graham had sent to my apartment means what I think it means.
“Sexy panties in a fancy gift box mean exactly what you think they mean, genius,” I murmur to my reflection in my compact as my cabbie whizzes down Sixth Avenue, weaving in and out of traffic in a way that would give me a heart attack if I made the mistake of looking out the window. “This is it. Time to get your head in the game and think positive, ready-to-pounce thoughts.”
Oh God . . . ready-to-pounce thoughts.
I thought I was ready—I’m the one who put this kinky bargain on the
table, for goodness sake—but now that my theory is about to become reality, I’m so nervous it feels like my tongue is trying to crawl down my throat and hide out in my stomach. I was expecting lesson one to be something tamer—a way to ease into this, like sinking into a pool of slightly too-hot water—but then there were panties.
And panties mean business.