Page 9 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 1

Twenty-two and a virgin.

I did not have sex in college, when everyone else was busy getting it on. My virginity has nothing to do with a religious preference or any of the scared straight lectures we got at my Catholic high school. It doesn’t even have anything to do with lack of opportunity.

I dated a few guys in college, most of who kissed like a wet vac and groped me like they were trying to perform a TSA strip search. Every time I’d come close to getting naked with a guy all I could feel was massive amounts of disappointment coupled with extreme awkwardness, so I’d stop them, fake a headache or plead an early exam and say goodnight.

They never called again, and I never much cared. Instead I spent my Friday and Saturday nights studying or working in the library, trying to earn as much as I could to offset my student loans and studying hard enough to make them worth it.

But something about Jared tells me he’ll be anything but a disappointment, which means I can only be a disappointment to him. I have no idea what to do with a man like that. I don’t know where to put my hands, or what to do with my hands.

I lean back on my couch and let my mind wander for a moment, from the photo of his tanned body on the beach to the man himself sitting behind his desk daring me to try on lingerie for him.

Perhaps even now looking at the picture I texted him, a picture that I never should have sent. What was I thinking?

With only an hour left until the car comes — and Jared’s warning not to be late ringing in my mind— I jump up from the couch and start to get ready. After a shower, where I carefully shave my legs and make sure my bikini line is in shape, I spritz myself with the ocean water body spray I got in a gift bag at work. I dry my shoulder-length hair into loose, beachy waves (my only runway-ready feature) and dig through the drawer in my vanity to pull out all my best makeup. Then I retrieve the Délicat bag from the kitchen table and slip into the lace and satin. I adjust my full breasts into the bra, snap the elastic cupping my ass, and then carefully tug at the strings on the lace corset, just like Regina showed me back at the store. When I feel the corset pull at my skin just beneath my breasts I feel a burst of heat rush through me. Good lord. This underwear has already gotten me closer to an orgasm than any man ever has.

I give myself a few moments to stare at myself in the mirror, wondering if maybe, just maybe I could be the kind of woman Jared King would want in his bed.

I shake my head, my long bob brushing my bare shoulders, to let go of that idea. I have no idea what tonight is — a date, a punishment, a delicious torture, a prelude to being fired — but I can’t let myself think about Jared King’s bed.

I go to my closet and pull out my one and only cocktail dress, a short silk number in a dark plum color with a deep v-neck and a full, flouncy skirt. I found it at a consignment shop, a steal thanks to a tiny pull along the hem, which my mom happily repaired for me. I figured working for a company like King Advertising, with their top-shelf clients, I’d need something for the inevitable work event.

This was not the type of work event I had in mind.

I step into it and carefully zip the exposed gold zipper, then slip on a pair of black peep-toe heels, another consignment store purchase.

I step in front of the mirror and give myself a final once-over, practicing the kind of bored, distracted look the women Jared is known for dating wear all the time, but it doesn’t look right.

No one has ever described me as sexy.

What I get called most often is “sweet,” with my blond hair, blue eyes, and pink lips that are most often curved into an eager smile. And I’ve always been happy with that. I’ve never been down on the way I look.

So instead I look at myself in the mirror and smile the smile of someone who looks amazing, who’s wearing $1200 worth of lingerie, who works at a top advertising firm and is eating dinner with a billionaire. And that’s when I realize I look fucking great. Whatever is happening tonight, at least I look the best I’ve ever looked. I can take whatever’s coming.

I hope.

A horn honks outside my window, two short, polite blasts, and I peer out the window to see the Mercedes waiting on the street below. I take one final deep breath, dab at my lipstick with my pinkie finger, grab my purse, and hustle out the door to meet my fate.