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Sex and Other Shiny Objects (Boyfriend Material #2)
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The second the test-the-sexy-scenes offer landed in my lap, I said yes.
After all, I’ve been damn curious about a few things I’ve read in romance novels. Do buttons truly go flying across the floor when you rip off a guy’s shirt? Is staircase sex hella hot or does it leave you with a big old bruise mark on your back? And don’t even get me started on all that panty shredding, and whether it even works.
Time to find out as I embark on Project Sexy Scenes Research, at the request of my hotshot book editor bestie.
All I need is a willing scene partner. Enter Tristan, my best guy friend. The witty, tell-it-like-it-is, bearded hottie volunteers for the experiment.
He’s also the guy who gave me the most devastating, toe-curling kiss of my life ten years ago. But nothing has happened since then.
And nothing will come between my panties and our friendship now since we have a plan to keep it PG.
But once the buttons start flying, all bets are off…
S-E-X AND OTHER SHINY OBJECTS is a standalone romance in the BOYFRIEND MATERIAL series. The other titles are ASKING FOR A FRIEND and ONE NIGHT STAND-IN.
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There’s just something about white lace.
Though red lace is delicious too.
And I can’t forget about pink lace.
Who am I kidding? From satin to silk to cotton, every shade and every style, it all entices me.
There is nothing quite like lingerie to make a girl feel pretty.
My grandma instilled in me this appreciation for intimates. An elegant aficionado of both class and undies, she took me shopping for my first bra when I was thirteen—a white cotton number with lacy embroidery. Lace and I fell in love at first touch, and I haven’t looked back since.
My grandmother also taught me the most important thing to remember when choosing indulgent undergarments: “Whoever said sexy lingerie was more for the man seeing it than the woman wearing it had it all backward.”
Or, put another way, if you buy a Kelly-green panty and bra set, it damn well better be because you love St. Patrick’s Day.
As one of my semi-regular customers tries on the matching set, I’m hoping the confident and brainy Daniella is keen on all things Irish for her underthings.
From the privacy of the dressing room suite in the back of my Madison Avenue boutique, she shouts out to me, even though I’m only feet away, sorting through an order of bustiers. “Peyton, I need your prediction. What is the likely outcome of me wearing this set?”
“Let’s see what we’re working with.” I set the gorgeous black satin darlings in their box as Daniella opens the scalloped door a smidge.
A nagging worry pricks at the back of my mind, since she’s not a shy woman.
She nudges the door the rest of the way.
“You look like a gorgeous four-leaf clover, and it fits you perfectly.” It’s true, but something is still off.
She giggles, and my Spidey senses tingle again. Daniella isn’t a giggler. She’s chatty and analytical, a statistician who loves to talk about outcomes and probabilities, not the type who titters demurely at a compliment.
If this color and this style make her giggle, is it right for her? I don’t want her to go home with something that makes her feel anything less than fabulous. Some women love bright green. Others do not. And if Daniella’s not enamored, this lush ensemble will wind up in the back of the drawer, aka the lingerie graveyard. It’s a fate no sexy underthings should suffer.
And it’s not good for the peddlers of them. Let a customer go home with something she won’t wear, and you might as well say sayonara to that client.
So, for both our sakes, I pose the key question. “How does it make you feel?”
With the door open, she regards herself in the mirror inside her dressing room. “It’s an odd color, but Jamie says he loves this shade of green because of . . .”
I wonder what goes in the blank that she hesitates to say.
Wait. No. I’ve got it.
“The Green Lantern!”
She swivels around, her jaw falling to the plush rose carpet of my shop. “How did you guess?”
I smile, because now we’re getting to the heart of the matter. “I can tell you, but you’re going to have to keep it a secret. Pinky swear?”
Her eyes glitter with the promise of intel. “Of course.”
I cup my mouth, whispering, “I have lingerie ESP. It skips a generation, but it’s passed on through the women in my family.”
She laughs, then gestures to her pile of clothes on the pink cushion in the corner of the dressing room. The top item is a pair of gray panties that look like they’ve seen five too many years. “As you can probably tell, I don’t have any predictive power of the sort. But seriously, did I tell you about his Green Lantern obsession last time I was here?”
I shake my head. “No, but you did mention his predilection for comic books the other week. You said he likes it when you dress up as Wonder Woman, right?”
“He’s obsessed with her,” she says in a whisper, then shudders, like the thought makes her skin crawl. “And that’s the heart of the issue right there. He wants to rip my panties off when I wear red and blue. I bought a pair of bright-red satin panties last time, and I wore chunky gold bracelets on my wrists to complete the look. He went crazy for it.”
“And do you love that?”
She shrugs, a disinterested look in her eyes. “It’s not really my thing, nor are ripped panties, because . . . hello! All I can see are numbers, numbers, numbers of how much money I’m setting on fire. Can you say ‘expensive habit’?” She fiddles with her bra strap. “But aren’t relationships about give and take?”
“Of course. But the underwear is on your body. Turn around. Look in the mirror. And tell me how you feel in this set.”