Lauren wasn’t just the right one.
She was theonlyone.
Chapter Twenty-One
LAUREN
Sliding my fingerover the tiny rosettes adorning a pretty pair of panties, I knew I was in dangerous territory. A late afternoon meeting with a team of education researchers in Cambridge left me only a few blocks from my favorite lingerie shop, Forty Winks, and it was my Friday treat. I promised myself one sweet purchase, yet a mountain of silky, frilly, scandalously delicious items now sat beside the cash register.
And the rosette panties were going on top.
Lingerie was one of my most beloved splurges, but I didn’t like thongs—I didn’t equate sexy with basically bare—and garters were altogether too complex for me. A simple bikini or boy short in the right fabrics, styles, and colors was adequately devastating for me.
And Matthew.
Not long ago, I wore fancy panties because they mademehappy, but if it was possible, I now gained more satisfaction from his reaction than anything else. The perfect pair left him speechless, and I loved possessing that power.
He knew my days started winding down around six or seven, and that was when he usually texted to inquire about my skivvies—guessing the color and cut, asking when he’d be able to rip them off, debating whether he’d want to carry them around for a day or two after dragging them off.
It was hilarious and delightful, and despite Steph’s commentary on this topic, not at all perverted or fetishy.
The best part was he understood there wasn’t much space in my head for more than a couple flirty texts each day, never mind properly scheduled dates or plans exclusive of take-out and Netflix. This was our version ofmore than drinks, and I appreciated his low key approach. It was fun and easy, and we weren’t busy overthinking it.
Last Friday was a great example. He texted in the late afternoon, curious about my underthings, and decided we needed dinner in the North End. He was taking care of reservations and I was to meet him at the restaurant. It was one of those extraordinary planetary alignments where we weren’t too exhausted for a night out, we didn’t have any work crises to manage, and we were free to sleep in the next morning.
Matthew and I indulged in pasta and people watching and wine, and under the table I let him slide his hand all the way up my thigh and over my new panties. We shared innuendos and inside jokes, and we stumbled all the way back to his place, clinging to each other in laughter as we reveled in our private stories. My dress was on the floor seconds after he closed the door, and I stood there in only my bra, panties, and heels.
“I think I understand now,” Matthew said, his hands on his hips, “why they’re called unmentionables.”
With that thought, I tossed the rosette panties on the heap, and headed toward the bras. Soon cradling an armful, I closed the dressing room door behind me and felt my phone ringing in my back pocket.
“Where are you?” Matthew asked, breathless.
“Um…I’m out.”
“Where?” he said, the word bursting out in a whoosh.
Looking around the room, I considered how much to tell him. The slightest mention of lingerie was known to turn him into quite the caveman. “Cambridge. I’m doing some errands. Why? What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Everything is awesome,” he said. “We sold those brownstones, the ones in the Back Bay. All of them. Out of my hands, finally, and off the books. And it was abigsale.”
“Matthew, I am so thrilled for you. That’s incredible!”
I knew he’d been dedicating long hours to that project and dealing with all manner of problems.
“Hey, so, whenever we have huge wins like this, we go out and celebrate. And I want you with us tonight.”
I was about to say no—it seemed like something Matthew should enjoy with his business partners and I had a ton of work to plow through this weekend—but I caught my reflection in the mirror and paused. I looked the same as always, but I was different now, somehow moremethan I was before. With my phone tucked between my shoulder and head, and a half dozen bras under my arm, I decided planetary alignment wasn’t the only reason for a night out.
“Okay. Let me finish these errands, and meet me at my place in an hour.”
“Does that mean you’ll let me stay over when you get hammered and I have to carry you home?” Matthew asked.
“If anyone’s getting hammered—”
“Just say yes, sweetness. I’m happy and I want to spend the night with you and not everything needs to be a debate.”
“Fine. You can stay over. But I’ll definitely want croissants for breakfast tomorrow morning,” I said.
