Page 62 of Wide-Eyed
I thought things in my pants had chilled out enough for us to have a normal conversation without me eye fucking her when she wasn’t looking, but too late I realized that giving her a licking food when I was at half-mast had been a terrible idea. But I’d promised her ice cream, and if anyone had promised me ice cream, then taken it back, I’d have flipped my lid.
“What’s this?” Lyssa asked as I put the ice cream down in front of her.
I shot her a look.
“But the plate?” She pointed at the dish I’d placed her salted caramel cone on, partly because I didn’t want to risk touching her as I passed her a cone—in my current state, I’d probably cream my undies at one accidental touch. Pathetic. Also I knew she’d get distracted eating her cone and it would melt all over her. See, I wasn’t as dumb as everyone thought. Or I probably was, but I wasn’t dumb when it came to Lyssa. Because she made perfect sense.
“This is a fancy joint, Lyssa,” I joked. “We use plates around here.”
She giggled.
It was a real fucking inconvenience that she looked just as beautiful sitting here on my couch, her legs tucked under her with her red-tipped toes peeking out, as she had orgasming in my tub. My deepest wish right now was for her to leave the house so I could jack off in the shower. I was close to insisting she do that, but instead, I settled in my armchair on the other side of the room and brought up the most boner-killing topic I could think of.
“Tell me why you did that livestream at Bossi.”
Her jaw dropped. “You watched my livestream?”
I nodded.
“Was that the first time you had seen one of my videos? What an intro.”
I shrugged in a way I hoped was chill. “I’ve seen a few.”
Hundred.
“You … watch my content?”
“Sometimes.”
Her eyes fell back to her plate-cone. “If you watched the livestream, then you know what happened.”
“I know that you were angry. And I heard what that”—motherfucker—“shiny guy said. But I don’t feel like that’s the whole story. Is it?”
She was quiet. Then she sighed. “I don’t know where to start.”
I put my empty plate on the coffee table and pulled the recliner lever so I could stretch my legs out. “Start at the beginning. You called the first video, ‘Get Ready With Me To Confront My Boss!’”
She heaved a sigh. “Yeah. But it all started the month before that, when I lost my internship. They said there was an issue with the authenticity of my work. Which is?—”
“Bullshit,” I nodded. “Because your outfits are original. Scary original.”
“Exactly! Yes. But no one at Bossi would listen, and my position was eliminated. I was heartbroken. I couldn’t tell Caroline; I couldn’t tell anyone. It was humiliating.” Her chin dropped. “To lack originality in fashion is worse than slapping someone across the face. It threw me into a spiral. I questioned my career, my talent, everything about myself.” Then she took a deep breath. “And there was a complication. I was in a sexual relationship with the head of my department. Totally consensual,” she added quickly.
I didn’t say a fucking word.
But I was thinking lots of them.
“Paul’s the Director of Style at Bossi. It’s a prestigious role. He’s been at the magazine since it was a print publication in the 90’s and stayed throughout the digital transition. He’s one of the few left from those old days. He’s a legend.”
“Never heard of him.”
A small smile twisted the corner of Lyssa’s mouth. “No. I’m sure you haven’t. Every year, Bossi takes on two interns who report to one of the senior stylists, but Paul takes an interest in interns who have potential. If you catch Paul’s eye, you’re someone to watch. It’s like getting a gold star from Anna Wintour. Paul and I began spending a lot of time together. I liked him. He’s brilliant?—”
A growl bubbled in my throat, but she didn’t hear it.
“—and he knows everything about fashion. His body of work would make you drool. Well, maybe not you, but it made me drool.” Her expression clouded. “Our sexual relationship just … happened. We kept it quiet, because we didn’t want anyone to think he was giving me preferential treatment because I was giving him sex.”
She wrapped her arms around her knees, unaware of how much she’d revealed by wording it that way. As if sex was an output she generated, like knitting a hat.
