Mimi
Hello, Whit. It’s been a while.
Igive my head a tiny shake, frowning at myself in the mirrored walls of
the elevator.
Hi, Whit! Remember me?
My frown de epens 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 doorst ep 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.
Islide 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.
Islide 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
s epia 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 st ep inside the darkened
apartment.
“Come in,” r eplies a voice de eper 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.
Ifold my coat, placing it on a console then make my way de eper 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 de ep 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...?
Iterminate 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. “St ep 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 footst eps 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.
Inotice 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
d eposit the glass on a side table.
Istop in front of him, locking my knees to ke ep them from trembling,
and startle a little as his hand lifts. His white button-down pulls tight over
the swell of his bic ep 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 tr epidation.”
“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 k ept waiting.”
Iget 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.
Icount 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.
Istifle 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 es capes 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 de epens
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.
Exc ept 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 bic ep. 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.