The Interview

Hello, Whit. It’s been a while.

I give my head a tiny shake, frowning at myself in the mirrored walls of the elevator.

Hi, Whit! Remember me?

My frown deepens because that’s even worse. I doubt he’ll remember me, given I had braces and pigtails the last time I saw him.

Hi, Whit. I heard you literally own your own bank these days, so I thought…

I’d turn up on your doorstep with my begging bowl. Fine, my résumé.

My thoughts are interrupted as the elevator comes to a smooth stop. The doors glide open, but I find I can’t move as I press my hand to my chest, my poor heart flapping like a landed fish. This is the chance you wanted, I remind myself. Spreading your wings. Doing all the things. The doors begin to close, and I spring forward like this is the last chance saloon, turning sideways as I slide between the two.

So it looks like I’m doing this.

No big deal. I haven’t seen him in a zillion years, but that’s okay.

I slide my phone into my one good purse and hike it higher on my shoulder. No need to check I have the right door because there’s only one on this floor. Plus, the guy at the fancy concierge downstairs called up to let Whit know I was on my way. There’s no mistake. I’m in the right place.

And what a place it is—the lobby downstairs was decked out like a fancy six-star hotel. The low tasteful hum of music overlaid by the sound of my heels on the onyx marble floors, sofas, and a concierge desk, light fittings that look more like art installations. I guess some important people must live here, given the muscle-bound security detail who insisted on going through my purse with a fine-tooth comb. They even made me take off my cute beret, and I don’t think they were expecting to find a marmalade sandwich, even if my new coat makes me look like that cute teddy bear the Queen of England, God rest her soul, had tea with last year. Paddington, I think he was called.

I slide off the beret, suddenly conscious of looking like an overgrown toddler. But London is so much colder than I expected. I thought March was supposed to be the start of spring, but it’s been gray and gloomy since I arrived. I’ve seen the sun twice, but I swear there was no heat in it.

The decorator sure liked mirrors, I think as I stare at my reflection in a passageway that is basically a hall of mirrors, without the maze connotations and crazy shapes, thankfully. Their surfaces are mottled with age, or at least, made to look that way, the copper and verdigris making a sepia picture of me as I throw my coat over my arm and slide a lock of my summer-blond hair back into place.

At the shiny, onyx front door, I straighten my white shirt and give my pencil skirt one last tug. When I raise my fist to knock, the first wrap of knuckles pushes the door open. No one stands behind it with a hello, or hi, Mimi, I haven’t seen you in over a decade. I pause, hoping for some sign of life before I press my fingers to the wood and push a little more, remembering every CSI episode that started this way.

“Hello?” My voice echoes as I take a tentative step inside the darkened apartment.

“Come in,” replies a voice deeper than I would’ve recognized. My stomach tightens in anticipation or recognition, it’s hard to tell. Is that truly Whit? He sounds so… grown-up, his tone low and kind of velvety.

Stop being an idiot, he was a grown-up back then. Of course it’s him—his mom gave me the address and the snooty concierge downstairs confirmed it, and they called up.

I fold my coat, placing it on a console then make my way deeper into a room where a wall of windows overlook the shadowy treetops of Hyde Park, the hum of the busy Knightsbridge streets inaudible from below. Recessed lighting falls in distant corners casting shadows against the walls and rendering the stylish space with an intimate glow. I don’t have time to process why the lights aren’t on because all I can think of is there he is. Whit is just a few feet away, seated in a pale-toned armchair. His shiny black oxfords are planted wide, his pants equally dark. My eyes follow the row of buttons up his torso, his shirt folded at his forearms and open at the neck. I can’t see his expression—can’t tell if he’s happy to see me or not because, thanks to the fall of the light, his face is wreathed in shadow.

“Whit?”

“Stop where you are.”

My feet halt, my heart rattling in my chest at the softly spoken words so heavy with command. But that’s him all right. It’s Whit. Dark-haired and tan, my brother’s best friend always stood out like some exotic animal around my much fairer, blander family. And when he opened his mouth to speak, he sounded like a fairy-tale prince.

“Turn around.”

“Excuse me?” My words hit the air a little higher than I’d like.

“Turn around. Let me look at you.”

Something delicious yet uncertain flutters through me, but it’s just a little déjà vu, right? It’s been so long. And it’s not like I haven’t heard something similar from him before.

Turn around. Let me see you. Look at how tall you’ve grown since I was last here.

I’m lying to myself because that request was not the same, even if the sound of his voice always filled my stomach with butterflies before I even knew what it meant. So many nights I’ve lain awake wondering what it would be like to see this side of him. To hear him say my name in a sinfully sultry tone. To feel those eyes watching me. Experience the brush of his fingertips.

“Lovely.” The deep and smooth voice behind me reminds me of bourbon. “All the way around now.”

My heart pounds uncertainly. What am I doing? What is he doing? I’m not fourteen anymore. I know what these feelings are, and I recognize that tone. He’s never been anything but courteous, never shown any interest in me beyond a kind of distant, brotherly thing. He knows it’s me—the concierge called up with my name. So does that mean he…?

I terminate the thought, unwilling to examine it as whatever part of my brain in charge of impulse control literally short-circuits as he purrs, “Come closer, darling.”

Before my brain registers the motion, my heels tap-tap against the marble floor. “Step into my parlor said the spider to the fly?”

Before I’ve time to be embarrassed at my ridiculousness, his dark chuckle weaves its spell around me.

“I won’t flatter you like the spider,” he murmurs, “but I might let you come when I eat you later.”

My footsteps almost falter as a throb of sweet percussion strikes up inside. Never in a million years could I have expected anything like this. I couldn’t have conjured those words up in my darkest fantasies, despite spending many nights in my head with him. But maybe I lack imagination because this Whit is neither tender nor sweet. I find I’m more than all right with it.

I notice the lowball glass resting against his thick thigh as he lounges back in the chair. My heart dances an erratic beat as he slowly uncoils to deposit the glass on a side table.

I stop in front of him, locking my knees to keep them from trembling, and startle a little as his hand lifts. His white button-down pulls tight over the swell of his bicep as his finger hooks under the strap of my purse, slipping it from my shoulder. There’s something almost erotic in the motion that evokes the sense of being undressed.

“You’re trembling.” He curls his hands around my waist. It does nothing to help. In fact, I’m pretty sure amazement has me immobilized.

“I know.” I roll my lips together, but the words fall anyway. “I’ve locked my knees to stop them from rattling like maracas.”

His laughter is a shocking puff of air against my midriff. I glance down and realize he’s slipped his thumb under the hem of my shirt to expose a patch of skin above the waistband.

“It’s just your wings fluttering.” His tone is sort of velvety, and I inhale sharply when his thumbs skim lightly across my skin. “Excitement mixed with trepidation.”

“You think I’m nervous?”

“You should be. It’ll make the night more pleasurable for us both.”

The night? What comes after he eats me to orgasm? Not that I’ve ever had that pleasure, but if you’re going to take risks, it’s not the kiddie pool you dip your toes in.

“Lift your skirt.”

“I—what?” What on earth… have I bumped my head? Am I lying out in the street in a coma?

“Show me.” His words are a honey-dipped temptation. As though to sweeten the instruction a little more, he leans closer, pressing his lips to the skin above my waistband.

Warmth floods between my legs, and I’m pretty sure I whimper.

“Such a pretty sound.” I feel the loss of his heat immediately as he leans away again. “Hurry now. Show Daddy what he wants.”

If show me made me warm, Daddy feels like a burst of wildfire across my skin. Why that flutters my button, I don’t know, but I do know Daddy Whit is so freakin’ hot.

You’re not a deviant, whispers a little voice of dissent.

Shows what you know.

“You look like that might’ve broken your brain a little bit.” His tone is amused. “If you don’t like Daddy, we can always go with something else.”

“No,” I say quickly. I’ve just never—”

“A Daddy virgin?”

That is so nasty, yet my insides throb.

“I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

I get the sudden sense that the balance of the moment is slipping. I glance down, everything inside me drawing tight at his disapproval. Weird. He’s barely moved a muscle, yet I feel the weight of his disappointment like a spikey woolen jacket I want to throw off. Before my brain registers what I’m doing, my fingers are at the button on the back of my skirt.

“Not that way.” He makes an indolent motion with his finger that I take to mean I’m supposed to… lift it? My fingers move hesitantly to my thighs. “Yes, sweetheart. That’s right.”

He settles back as I begin to gather the fabric. His eyes burn through the shadows as I pull it higher and higher until—I can’t quite believe—it’s gathered at my waist. It feels dirty but somehow on the right side of wrong. And, oh my goodness, he called me sweetheart, and I really, really liked it.

I count the beats that pass between us in the throbbing between my legs before he moves forward, the light catching the blade of his cheekbones as his face comes into the light. He doesn’t glance up, seeming to examine my panties before he hooks a thumb into the elastic at my hip. Pleasure pulses through me. I’m pretty sure I’m going to melt before the navy-colored lace slides down my legs. But neither of those things happens as his thumb slides away. Not that my pleasure abates, his expression so serious as he trails a slow finger up between my legs.

His head lifts, his gaze catching mine as though daring me to stop him. I won’t of course. All I can think about is how I’ve never been this close to him before and how his eyes are so much more striking than I remember. Flecks of gold shine in the ambient light, amber striations around his dark pupil making his eyes seem tiger-like. A knife-straight nose and broad slashes for cheekbones. His mouth is full, and the divot above his finely carved bow makes me wonder what noise he’d make if I kissed it.

I stifle a sigh, my body jolting, suddenly chasing his touch as his index finger lightly brushes between my legs. One curling come-hither motion—it’s barely a brush, but God, how it makes me tremble. One brush becomes another, his touch so slow and methodical. So… “Oh God.” My eyes flutter closed as a familiar sensation begins to build.

“Open them, little fly,” he instructs softly. Something must flicker in my expression as he adds, “I’m following your lead.”

“Flies are—”

“Gossamer winged.” My body convulses as he increases the pressure, working the fabric of my panties where I’m suddenly wet. “‘Will you come into my parlor,’ said the Spider to the Fly. ‘’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.’”

“The way into… my parlor is… up a winding stair.’” He smiles as I join in, my words halting and breathless.

“‘I have many curious things to show when you are there.’” He delivers the line with such wicked intent.

“Oh, I just bet you have.” My feathery laughter halts as he introduces his thumb. As he presses it to my clit, a mewl escapes my mouth.

“‘Will you rest upon my bed?’ said the Spider to the Fly. ‘There are pretty curtains drawn around and the sheets are fine and thin. If you like to rest a while, I’ll snugly tuck you in.’” His thumb and finger come together to pinch my clit, and I make the strangest noise, my body reacting as though struck by a live line. “I’m not sure we need a bed right now,” he asserts softly as his arm slides around me, banding my thighs. “Not when you’re doing so well.”

“No, don’t stop. I’ve never—” But I have no more words as he deepens the damp crease of my panties. Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I’m so pleased for the lack of light. My feminist membership card will absolutely be revoked once they discover that Daddy and the patriarchy own my ass.

“Oh, I’ve no intention of stopping,” he whispers. “Yes, that’s it. Such pretty fluttering.”

“Oh God!”

“Not quite, little fly.” His assertion is full of dark amusement. I must pull a face again. “Something more generic?” he purrs, his face half in shadow, half washed in the light. “Shall we stick with sweetheart, or how about baby girl?”

I’d like to assert I don’t like any of those options, but that would require at least basic verbal skills. He could call me Genghis Khan, and I wouldn’t protest as the mostly unused muscles in my thighs begin to flex and tense. I’ve never orgasmed standing before—or from a hand over my underwear rather than in. I’m beginning to think I might need stronger quads. Better coordination. Something to hold on to.

“That’s it,” Whit encourages, and oh my God, I know I shouldn’t be turned on by his praise, but I am. “You’re such a good little slut for me.”

That. I’m not into that.

No way.

Except for right now as pleasure begins to spiral through me from the tips of my toes to my freakin’ hair follicles. My body bows, and I fall forward, my hands grabbing his bicep. Somehow, I also seem to grab the remaining threads of my dignity.

“Oh God, Whit,” I whimper, locking my knees against this wave of pleasure. “Me-me. Call me Mimi.”

My fingers tighten on his arm as I throw my head back and do the only thing I can. I let go. I’m a little too occupied to notice anything else. So I don’t see his shoulders tense, and I don’t realize if his head rears back. I definitely didn’t see the color leach from his face, and I wouldn’t have anyway, thanks to the low lights. As it is, I see nothing, hear nothing, and care for nothing but those bliss-filled moments of sheer release.