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She'd shaved inside her thighs before, but it always left sharp stubble and a rash. If she was going to be someone's lust object, she wanted to be smooth and sleek and not worried about whether he was going to get sandpapered by her thighs.
She stripped and gave herself a quick sponge bath, put on some red lipstick as the quickest way to brighten up her face, combed her hair and smoothed out the frizzies with water and silicone serum, then sat on the edge of the tub and tore into the wax kit.
The instructions were full of cautions, but she'd waxed her legs a few years ago and figured she understood the basics. The cold wax came in a tube and had the consistency of honey. She squeezed a blob of it onto the small plastic spatula from the kit, smeared it over a quarter-sized patch of hair inside her thigh, pressed a strip of cloth over it, then held her skin taut with one hand while ripping off the cloth with the other.
"Holy crap!" she screeched, and slapped one palm down over her offended flesh, hoping that pressure would ease the pain. A moment later she lifted her hand and examined the damage. Her skin bore faint pink dots where each hair had been exhumed, but was otherwise a smooth, lovely patch of civilized hairlessness amid the wilds.
Emma darted naked out into the kitchen and checked the time: she had eight minutes. She darted back into the bathroom, hoping Russ would be late.
If she waxed in sensible one-inch patches it would take her forever to get it done, and impatience drove her to slather progressively wider and longer strips of wax on her skin, press on the cloth, then pull it off in a series of short jerks. Stray dollops of wax attached to her fingers, to the tub, to hairs she didn't intend to pull.
The doorbell rang and her hand jerked, sending a smear of wax from her i
He knocked on the door.
"I'm coming! One second!" she shouted, and tried to rip the cloth off. "Monkey Christ!" she shrieked, and tumbled in pain to the bathroom floor, her thighs clamped shut over the agony.
"Emma?" Russ called from the other side of the front door, his voice muffled.
"I'm okay!" she squeaked. "I'll be right there!"
She lay for a moment, breathing heavily and waiting for the pain to fade, then pushed herself up into a sitting position and looked at her crotch. The white cloth was attached to her like a bandage, ru
"Jeee-zus H!"
There was too much wax and way too much hair. She snatched up the instruction sheet, sca
"Emma?" Russ called again.
"Dammit! Dammit dammit dammit!" She'd have to figure it out later. She grabbed all the waxing paraphernalia and shoved it into the cabinet under the sink. She got up off the floor and yelped as she tried to straighten up. The damn wax and cloth had glued her left leg into a raised position. Standing up straight stretched her skin painfully. "Crap!" She'd have to hide her limp as best she could. She pulled on her bra, sleeveless white blouse, and short green skirt, skipping the underpants. She didn't want those stuck to her as well.
With the waxed cloth tugging painfully with each uneven stride, she hobbled barefoot to the front door and put her hand on the knob. She rested her weight on her right leg, the left one cocked and on tiptoe, as if it were a sultry pose. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself, and planted a welcoming smile on her lips.
Ready or not, here she was.
Russ approached the door to his old apartment with an unsettling mix of familiarity and alie
And wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong, he reminded himself. All week, he had meant to call Emma and break their agreement. He'd meant to do that even as he express-mailed her a loaded Visa card. He'd meant to do it as he e-mailed her a link to his lab test results. He'd meant to do it as he bought a bouquet for her, walked into the building, and rode up the elevator-and now, as he stood before his old door, he still meant to do it.
He looked at the flowers. What the hell was he thinking? This wasn't a date!
But what was it? His mind scrambled back through memory, trying to find a parallel. All he could think of was Madame de Pompadour, the eighteenth-century mistress to the French king. He didn't doubt that she was given flowers. Jewels, likely. Clothes, even land. Aristocrats used to give their mistresses houses and land, didn't they?
His cellophane-wrapped Dutch irises from Pike Place Market suddenly looked inadequate.
But wait, the flowers were an apology for asking her to be his mistress, then recanting.
Weren't they?
He wished he had a beer.
He reached up and rang the bell.
Nothing happened. No footsteps, no replying voice. He knocked.
"I'm coming! One second!" she called, and then he heard a shrieking curse and a big thump.
"Emma?" he called in alarm.
She squeaked something he couldn't make out, then said, "I'll be right there."
More silence. More muffled cursing. Silence again.
"Emma?" he called carefully, imagining all sorts of mishaps. Maybe she'd hit her head and was disoriented. Maybe she'd cut herself. Maybe-
He heard her approach the door and then stop. A quiet fell in which he imagined he could hear her taking a breath. He stared at the wall of door, knowing she was there.
Then she opened the door.
She was gorgeous. Her fair skin was flushed pink, her rosy lips parted in a welcoming smile. Her brown eyes sparkled and her dark hair fell like mink around her shoulders. His gaze skimmed down her body, taking in the vee of her blouse and the barest hint of lacy bra showing at one edge. Her short, emerald green pleated skirt looked like something a naughty Irish schoolgirl might wear. Her legs and feet were bare, one leg cocked enticingly, the lack of shoes making her seem more accessible.
His mouth went dry. This beautiful young woman was going to take him to her bed tonight. He imagined those soft pink lips on his arousal, those bright dark eyes looking up at him as she took him into her mouth. Lust stirred within him, his sex hardening.
"This was a mistake," he said, and thrust the flowers toward her.
"Nonsense! They're beautiful," she said, taking the bouquet. She sniffed them. "Thank you. Although I can't smell them over the roasting lamb." She lowered the flowers to chest height and smiled at him. "Come in, please. Di
He followed her reluctantly, wanting to correct her about what the mistake had been, but he was distracted by both the delicious scent of roasting meat and Emma's odd hopping gait. "Did you hurt yourself?"
"Just a temporary muscle tightness. Nothing to worry about!" She lurched into the kitchen.
He was going to ask again about her leg-it seemed a severe muscle issue-but was distracted by what she had done with his old place. The kitchen and living area were one room, divided only by a high breakfast bar. She had created a third space in the bay window at the front of the apartment by hanging panels of salvaged wood-framed windows from floor to ceiling, dividing the bay from the living area. She'd set up a dining area in that small glass-enclosed space, a tablecloth covering what looked like a card table. Two of the bay windows were open, bringing in the rustling of the leaves just outside them. It was surprisingly charming.