Trey takes the clothes—a new pair of Wrangler jeans, boxer briefs, and a T-shirt. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

“Sure.” I point to the bathroom. “There are towels underneath the sink. Feel free to use the shampoo and soap that’s in there.”

He goes. The bathroom door shuts and I try not to think about his robe dropping, and Trey Marks standing, fully naked in the space.

I’ve worked for Trey for two months now. Long enough that I feel comfortable around him, long enough that I no longer flinch when he comes near me. When we bump against each other, when he leans over my desk and examines documents, I no longer hold my breath, or sneak an illicit sniff of his cologne. He treats me with a sort of wary respect, and I’ve grown confident enough to let my opinions fly, sometimes without an appropriate filter or level of respect. It’s not that I don’t respect him, it’s just that I sometimes forget my place, overly empowered by my position. At Lavern & Lilly, I made decisions, and then waited to be admonished or overruled. At Marks Lingerie, he only watches, his eyes following my every move, my freedom eerie in its entirety. He promised me control over the design team, and he has delivered on that promise. It hasn’t stopped his temper from flaring, or arguments erupting between us. In the last two months, there have been plenty of both. I was meeting someone for sex. There is a whine of water pressure, and the shower turns off.

I clean off the coffee table and move the remote near his pillow. I consider it, then move it back to the coffee table, lining it up this month’s issue of Vogue. I should be tired. The last time I was up this late was before Fashion Week, and I fell asleep mid-sketch. It wasn’t a graceful slump either. I face-planted into the desk, my hand getting caught in between my body and the desk, my ring finger bending the wrong way. I didn’t even wake up from the pain. I woke up an hour later, the imprint of a stapler against my cheek, and when I saw the right angle of my finger, I passed out from the sudden brutality of it. That overreaction gave me a black eye, and caused poor Craig a hundred glares.

The bathroom door opens, and I turn. “Oh my God.” I lift a hand to my mouth to cover up my grin. “You look…”

“Sexy.” He fills in, then cocks his head, as if he can tell he guessed wrong. “Irresistible? Rugged?” He steps forward. “Wait, I got this. Drop—”

“Ridiculous,” I interrupt. “And … big.” Craig would have been appalled at such a kindergarten word, but it fits. He looks like a giant trying to wear a mortal’s clothing, the boxer briefs skin-tight, the T-shirt stretched across his chest and ending halfway down his abs. I swallow.

His eyes twinkle. “Why, thank you.” He shrugs. “I have been told that, on several occasions.”

“Not that…” I blush. “You know what I meant.” But he is big. The underwear that fit Craig so easily are tight around his thighs, the waistband riding low enough on his hips to show me those perfect angled cuts. And the bulge they point to … I turn my back to him and grab a few pillows off the couch, moving them to a basket beside my chair.

“Speaking of size, how big is your fiancé?” I hear a pop of fabric and look back to see him pulling off the T-shirt, his face covered by the white fabric.

I love Craig, I do. It’s been a great two years. We are consistently compatible. I wear his grandmother’s ring, and get along with his parents. Soon we will get married, and I will have his babies, and we will live out the rest of our lives in orderly, organized, and well-prepared fashion. All that aside, I can’t control myself from stealing one moment, one literal second, and enjoying the beauty that is my boss. It’s criminal that God would pair his face with those notches of abs, a neat row of thick muscles that pop and slide under his tan skin. I imagine what it would feel like to run my hand across them, maybe even down them. Would he step closer if I slid my palm inside of those boxer-briefs? Would his eyes close if I wrapped my hand around his cock?

The T-shirt lifts higher and I turn my head back to the basket, my breath hissing through my teeth as I fight to keep from looking at him.

“Well?” He steps closer, and in my peripheral vision, I can see him wad the shirt into a ball.

“What?” I straighten, and push hair away from my face. I am fine. He is going to bed. Nothing is going to happen.

“Your fiancé. Clark? How big of a guy is he?”

“His name is Craig.” I move past him and check the thermostat, turning it a few degrees cooler. “He’s average.” Average? Craig would be offended by the term. Then again, I am a wee bit offended from his reaction to my Mensa performance.

“He wears a medium.” He looks up from his examination of the tag, the word said with repulsion.

“So?”

“No grown man wears a medium.” He delivers the statement as if it is fact.

“Some do.” I flip on a Scentsy warmer and move to the kitchen, turning on the water and washing my hands. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“I’m good. You can head to bed. I’ll be fine.” He pauses at my fridge and pulls at the edge of a photo, held in place by a daisy magnet. “Is this you?”

I yank the photo from his hand before he gets too good a look at it. It’s one of me and Dad, my freshman year at Parsons, before he got sick. “Go to bed.” I point to the perfectly made up couch, eight feet away. “Now.”

He smiles, and clicks his tongue at me. CLICKS his tongue. I don’t know whether to be infuriated or lay back on the counter, begging for that tongue across every inch of my skin. “Submission isn’t really my thing, Kate.” The words drawl out, and I have no doubt that this man left submission behind in preschool. He probably orders the sun to rise, the traffic lights to change, and if he ordered every woman in America to buy his lingerie, he’d be ankle-deep in business right now. He—

I stop, an idea brewing. Trey Marks, a black and white image, in his suit, a devilish smirk in full effect, sitting in a leather club chair, a whisky in hand. Trey Marks, a high contrast video, him slowly rolling back his shirt sleeves, the tie loosened around his neck, his eyes boring into the camera.

I drop the paper towel on the counter and move past him and to my desk. I steal a piece of paper from the printer and sit down.

drop your pants.

turn around.

let me see you.

*Dress your body in the finest lingerie on Earth.

*Your body is art. Dress it that way. Let it shine. sparkle.

“What are you doing?” His hand rests on the desk, and he leans forward, looking at the page. I watch his hand, the flex of minute muscles, the strong and beautiful lines of his fingers. The bare ring finger, the odd look of his wrist without a watch.

I look back to the page, the idea still gaining momentum in my mind. “I don’t know yet. I think I have an idea for a new ad strategy.”

“We don’t have the money for ads.” He pushes off the table, the words clipped, and I can feel the disappointment radiating off him.

I turn in my chair and watch him walk away. It’s not that difficult of an activity, not when he’s in just underwear, his ass displayed to perfection, the lines of his back lean and strong. He needs to put on more clothes. If Craig’s don’t fit him, he can put the bathrobe back on. Or get under the sheets. I can’t possibly come up with a winning strategy while he saunters around practically naked. “We’ll find the money.”

He doesn’t turn. “You’ve seen the balance sheets. We’re barely making payroll.”

“Borrow it.”

I watch as his hands clench into fists, then relax. “I’m leveraged as much as I can be.”

“Then we’ll wait until we have some profitable quarters. We will be profitable.” I believe the words, and if he can’t hear that in my voice, he’s an idiot. “Don’t worry,” I add. The poor man. Talk about a rough day. I think of Craig, who is most definitely in bed right now, his noise machine on, the sound of crashing waves floating through his seventy-one-degree bedroom.

“I know advertising isn’t my department, but I can design a line around this concept. If—”