Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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I'm hungry, drunk, and down a hundred dollars by the time we walk back into the hotel lobby. I wasn't planning on spending that much, but when Jenny pulled us into the tiny lingerie boutique a few blocks away, all the level-headed reserve I had slipped right through my drunken fingers. The rows of colorful lace sets were mesmerizing, displayed in long aisles organized by color. My drunken mind was amazed by it, reaching out to feel the soft fabrics against my fingertips as I held my cup in my other hand, sipping down my third tequila-mixed drink like it was a juice box.
I walked through the store like it was a rainbow waiting to be explored, admiring the pretty sets as I waited for Nia and Jenny to pick out their favorite pieces; but when I got to the far end of the store where the kaleidoscope of colors faded into white lace, I was entranced. It was the bridal section. Somehow, the little white pieces were more alluring to me than anything else I'd seen. They were beautiful—elegant, even, sliding like silk through my curious fingers.
I'll be the first to admit that my collection of bras and panties isn't the most seductive. Aside from the one black lace bra that I own, all the rest are basic Target bras. I have a handful of lacy panties—a gift from Nia for my last birthday—but other than those, my underwear drawer is filled with dull, bikini-style cotton underwear. I never really gave it much thought, and based on how Tristan's eyes always seem to darken whenever he sees me in them, I don't think he has any complaints. But as I explored the row of lacy lingerie sets, I couldn't stop imagining what he would think if he saw me in something like that instead, what his hands would feel like, exploring the barely-there lace wrapped around my hips and chest, lightly veiling, rather than concealing anything underneath.
The thought alone was enough for me to pick up the small, white lace set and bring it to the checkout counter, barely blinking at the price flashing on the screen as I swiped my debit card. I don't know if that was because of the tequila still coursing through my veins or the rush of adrenaline that surged through me at the thought of Tristan between my thighs, desperate to pull the scrap of lace down my legs. That same fantasy flashes through my mind again as we cross the lobby, sending a spark of heat across my skin, prickling as it goes as if each nerve in my body is catching fire.
"Should we go back out to the pool?" Jenny leads us into the elevator, her own much fuller bag of lingerie swinging from her hands as she presses the button to our floor. My shoulders and nose are slightly sunburnt from the three hours we spent out there before we left for the shops, but the poolside margaritas were too good to leave, and with the balmy desert sun beaming down on us, we were finally able to forget about the cold, seemingly infinite winter we left behind in Pullman. Our little college town does get warm, blistering hot, even, but it's late to arrive and early to exchange for the crisp autumn air that always sweeps in.
Growing up in Florida, I'm used to experiencing a different kind of heat every summer. It's tropical heat, the kind that warms you from the inside out and goldens your skin while you nestle into the sun-dried sand, falling asleep to the sound of waves crashing on the shore. This heat, dry and parched, isn't nearly as nice as that, but it's better than the frigid wind that's been pulling past Pullman, bringing ice-cold rainstorms along with it.
