The Absolutely True Story of Us (7 page)

I'm not a scumbag, but I'm not above using their tactics. Actually proving that I'm a good person would take way too much time and effort. It's easier to smile easily, ask a lot of light questions, and laugh along with bad jokes.
 

Why am I doing this?

I couldn't say no to Lissy when she called. It was on the tip of my tongue, and then
yes
just popped out of my mouth.

So maybe I'm still hung up on her. Just a little bit. There was never any closure there, not that there usually is. But the way she turned on me - it never sat right.

Everything else that doesn't work out, I can just walk away from. And to my credit, I did try. But now, suddenly, here I am.

Running back to her.

***

Lissy

I'm sitting in a post-coital glow, staring at the screen of my phone. I wish I didn't find myself in this situation so often.

M: New rule. When we're finished, tell me "thank you, Sir."

Thank you, Sir.

That's easy enough. This isn't the first time I've found myself wondering if he actually gets off on this, like, for real - or if it's just a power trip. I don't know how he can type so quickly and so coherently if he's jerking off at the same time.

M: Good girl.

I wish that didn't give me such a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

Dean

It's the night of the fetish ball, and Lissy managed to shake off her family for a few hours by convincing them she had a "boring literary thing." I actually did manage to find leather pants. They look...pretty good, I think. A little ridiculous, but I think the
good-ridiculous
line is one I'm cursed to walk when it comes to fetish wear.

I haven't seen Lissy's outfit yet. I have to admit I'm desperately curious. Back when we met, and she was still at the temp agency, she always looked pretty cute in her business casual clothes. After she got laid off, it was mostly jeans and sweatpants, which didn't make her any less cute. But they didn't exactly do much for her curves. She's always had this fantastic hourglass figure, which of course she thinks is "too fat" because she's not airbrushed in the mirror. My few suggestions at outfits were always shot down, and after the first time I tried to give her a sweater that hugged her chest but apparently made her stomach look "huge," I gave up.

I've managed to get myself pulled together into the pants and a nice shirt when I hear her voice coming out of the bedroom.

"Dean?"
 

The door's closed, but she obviously wants me to come in. Shrugging, I push it open.

Well, fuck me.

She's mostly dressed. Her leather skirt comes down mid-thigh, enough to suggest but not openly confirm that she's wearing stockings with garters. And yes, that's definitely a corset. Not some zip-up stretchy corset top, either. The real deal.

Which is, I realize, the reason why I'm here.

"Lace me up," she says calmly, gesturing to the loose ribbons hanging at her back. Well, God
damn
. She looks like a wet dream already, and it's not even properly cinched yet.

"I..." The ribbons sit there innocuously, mocking me. I'm pretty sure
my
laces just got a little tighter. "I've never done this before."

"It's just like tying shoes," she says, impatiently.

"It's really not," I inform her. "If I tie my shoes wrong I don't risk smothering someone to death."

"If I can't breathe,
I'll tell you
." She rolls her eyes at me in the mirror. "Come on. You just tighten the two loops on the back and do the bunny ears. I promise I won't let you bruise my ribs."

What would a Dom do? Well, he certainly wouldn't chicken out on this. With a confidence I don't feel, I grab one of the sets of loops and start pulling it tight. Tighter. She's right, it is a little bit like tying shoes, except tying shoes doesn't give me a hard-on. The more I think about how much I really don't want an erection right now, the more determined it becomes.

She takes in a sharp breath. "Okay. That's it. Tie it there."

I do.

The next one is easier, and I'm harder. Thank God she's standing in front of me in the mirror. Her tiny gasp as I cinch the corset tighter sends an almost painful throb to my groin.

"That's a little too much," she tells me, her voice a little breathless. "Let it out."

I stand there, still holding the ribbons, wondering how she'd react if I threw her down on the bed right now.

"Let it out!" she insists, glaring at me. "Dean?"

I grin at her reflection. "What's the magic word?"

"Go fuck yourself." She tries to twist around, but I let the ribbons slack a little and tie them off.

"Asshole," she snaps when I finally let her go. She turns around to face me. "I swear I'm -"

That's when she notices it. She stops mid-sentence, stares, tries to look like she's not staring, deflates slightly, and blushes a deep red.

"Um," she says, sidestepping around me to the doorway. "We're going to be late. I'll meet you in the car."

If she imagines she's doing me a favor by giving me a chance to jerk off in the bathroom, she's absolutely right.

***

The car ride is silent and awkward. She's slipped out of her coat and shawl since it's toasty-warm in the car, a bit too toasty-warm to be strictly comfortable in leather pants. And it's even less comfortable with her tits calling to me like a homing beacon from the other side of the backseat.

How can I
not
look? They're pushed up high and proud, the corset doing its job like a goddamn professional. I could get lost in that cleavage.
 

You used to have those in your bed every day, asshole. Didn't appreciate them then, did you?

Fine. Maybe I took her for granted a little bit. Maybe more than a little. But I never saw her like this before. It's not just her clothes, it's the way she holds herself. She looks a little bit regal and a little bit sly, and I realize that my inconvenient arousal might've actually tickled her more than she let on.

"You look nice," I tell her, finally.

Great job. Awesome line. Now she'll melt for sure.

"I know." She glances at me sidelong and smiles. Okay, so now we're joking about my boner. At least that's a step away from the awkward silence.

"You know it's not always a compliment," I point out. "Sometimes it's involuntary."

"Right," she says, shifting in her seat a little. "
Sometimes
it is."

Now I can almost see the top of her stocking. I'm pretty sure it's not just those faux-tights that are made to look like it, I think they're the real deal. And I don't know why that makes me want to groan out loud.

"Yes," she says, following my line of sight. With one finger, she hikes her skirt up just enough to show where the garter attaches. "They're thigh-highs."

"Christ." I let my head fall back on the seat.

"
She never dressed like that when we were together
," Lissy intones, mocking my inner monologue. "Am I right?"

I shoot her a look. "Well, you didn't."

"Well, you never asked." She grins, sliding a little bit closer, just enough so she can reach out and grab the end of one of my laces. She can't bend at the waist much, so this gesture puts her breasts approximately two inches from my face. I freeze as she tugs on the end of the thin leather strip, gently. "Also,
neither did you
."

God damn. The girl wanted me in leather and lace-up flies, I would have done it in a heartbeat. I had no idea. How was I supposed to know?
 

"That's not fair," I grumble, trying to squirm away from her before my temporarily-dormant dick realizes what's going on. "I didn't know you liked it.
Every
straight man with eyes wants to see his woman in a corset and thigh-highs."

"Oh boy," she says, taking mercy on me and putting a little more distance between us. "I hope you're not about to trot out that old 'women aren't visual' stereotype. Come hang out in some of the online readers' groups I'm in. You'll be in for a world of wonders, my friend."

"I'm not saying women aren't visual, I'm just saying...I mean, is that a thing? Do all women like lace-up leather pants? Nobody talks about it." Too late, I realize I've stumbled into a trap.

"Exactly." She grins. "You know how much time women spend talking about what they can wear to please men? Why don't you try tipping the scales a little bit?"

"Fine, tell me all the secrets, then." I fold my arms across my chest. "I'll make sure to add them to the agenda of the next Bro's Meeting."
 

"Um, off the top of my head? Well-tailored suits. Button fly jeans. Dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Sharp uniforms. Boots.
Cowboy
boots. Cowboy
hats
, if you're into that sort of thing."

My eyes widen a little. "Seriously? This is all common knowledge?"

She shrugs. "I mean, pretty much. Opinions vary, of course. I once knew a guy who told me that his favorite look on a woman was a bikini and sneakers. There's no accounting for taste."

"A bikini and anything is a good option," I inform her, glancing at her chest again. God damn it.
 

"Yeah, well." She smiles, without it reaching her eyes. "Not really for me."

"Could be," I point out.
 

But she just shakes her head.

***

Lissy

Me in a bikini? Seriously? I'd get laughed off the beach. Oh well, his vote of confidence is charming, I guess. I'm still kicking myself for not coming up with a scathing one-liner when I noticed that he got hard when he was lacing me up, but the whole thing just threw me off. At the tail end of our relationship, the bedroom situation had become so tepid I was pretty sure he just didn't want me anymore - if he ever had. He certainly never treated me like those book boyfriends do. Then again, that's fiction.
 

But when I realized I actually still had the power to turn him on, I was caught in some weird mixture of embarrassment, awe, and the desire to grab it and kiss him.

So, you see my dilemma.

Walking into the ballroom, I'm hit with the distinct, smoky smell of leather. I'm arm-in-arm with Dean, glancing around the room for a familiar face. It doesn't take me long to spot Adrian Risinger and Meg, and it's immediately obvious from their body language that the wager is long over.

Smiling to myself, I disconnect from Dean and wander towards the buffet table. Meg spots me on the way, and waves me over.

"Lana! I didn't know you were going to be here." She's absolutely radiant in an outfit that I can only describe as a classy version of 'sexy secretary.' "How are you?"

"Oh, you know," I reply, because I can't bring myself to say anything else. "So, who won?"

Meg grins. "In the interest of maintaining the peace, we've agreed to call it a draw."

"So
you
did, then." I raise my glass. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." She sips her champagne. "It was damn close, though."

Adrian appears out of nowhere. He's going for a more subtle look with a charcoal-black suit and leather driving gloves. "Stop talking about our sex life," he says. "Hi, Lana."

"Never!" Meg declares, hooking her arm with his. "It's too thrilling to keep private. Isn't that the whole point of your books?"

"Excuse me," says Adrian, smiling in my general direction. "I need to go have a discussion with my secretary."

"I'm not your -
oh
." He tugs her by the arm as he heads for one of the doors, and she turns to wave at me, eyes sparkling. "Nice to see you again, Lana."

Dean keeps reappearing and disappearing, getting pulled into conversations with pretty much every woman who crosses his path. It takes us forty-five minutes to get to a table and sit down with a few bites to eat, because I feel like I can't leave him alone with them. I mean, who
knows
what could happen?

"You really think I could wear a bikini?" I blurt out.

He stares at me like a deer caught in the headlights. "Of course," he says. "Is this about the salad thing? Because I only meant -"

"Relax. I'm just..." I rotate the stem of my champagne glass. "I'm starting to wonder if I should stop waiting to magically get confident someday, and just go ahead and start faking it until I make it."

"Definitely fake it," says Dean. "You've had plenty of practice."

I roll my eyes. "You realize you just burned
yourself
, right?"

"I do," he says. "Confident people can afford to do that, because we act like everything was intentional. That's all you have to do. It's just like being onstage. When you flub a line, just keep going. Nobody notices, nobody remembers."

He might have a point, but I can't be like him. And I have to keep reminding myself that I'm taking advice from a cheater.

When Dean excuses himself, I immediately pull out my phone and open the texting app. I can't help myself.

I'm bored.

M: That doesn't look like a picture of panties to me.

I'm in public. At a party. I'm just bored, that's all. Feel free to ignore me.

M: You're not bored, you're annoyed. Go on, crawl up on my lap and tell Daddy all about it.

You're a fucking creep.

M: And yet here we are.

Damien told me I'd look good in a bikini.
 

M: Oh my God, I'm so sorry.
 

Seriously. I'm not bikini material. It's like he doesn't get it. Why do men never understand why we're insecure? Why do they always take it personally when we don't dress sexy "for them?" It's got nothing to do with them.

M: Darling, men are stupid. We think everything is about us.

I get that, but what's the solution?

M: Put on a damn bikini.

I roll my eyes.

So he doesn't have to compromise? It's all about me just getting over myself?

M: What are you wearing?