Tell Me More by Janet Mullany Page B

okay?”
    “I’m fine.”
    She frowned. “Maybe it’s too soon. You were with Hugh for a long time.”
    “No, it’s time.” I hastened to reassure her. “I know I was resistant to the idea at first but I think you were right.”
    She leaned forward and patted my hand. “I’m saying this because I’m your friend, honey. I think you’re keeping something from me and I don’t want you to be hurt. Anytime you want to talk, I’ll listen. Okay?”
    “Thanks. You’re a good friend.” I was touched by her concern but there was no way I would tell her about Mr. D. or what Willis and I would be doing this weekend.
    “I have an idea,” she said. “Let’s double-date. Patrick’s taking me to the Shamrock Club Saturday night—it’s some sort of Irish place with traditional music and Guinness. Why don’t you and Willis join us there?”
    “I’ll ask him, but we’re probably doing something in the evening and I’m not sure how long it will last.”
    “You have fun.”
    What an opportunity I was missing. I was badly in need of fashion advice. Kimberly, what should I wear to an orgy?

7
     
    SO WHAT DO YOU WEAR TO AN ORGY? ALTHOUGH, Willis assured me, it wasn’t an orgy. Oh, no, no, no. Just sex among friends.
    His friends. Another couple. Great folks. I’d love them. One way or another.
    The cowboy boots had been quite a hit with Willis but they were awkward to get in and out of. Not that I’d necessarily take them off. I eventually settled on kitten heels and jeans— I looked good in them and I didn’t want to look as though I were dressing for an orgy even if I was. Jeans with cowboy boots, as Willis had so amply demonstrated, were not great for spontaneous sex, and I didn’t want to picture myself sitting on the floor, undignified, wrenching off my boots with my jeans around my knees, and holding up the activities. (“There in a second!”)
    Maybe it would be the sort of house where you shucked your shoes in the hall, or, more likely, your panties.
    I topped the jeans with a scoop-neck black T-shirt, and beneath everything was some of my good underwear. I was sure Mr. D. would approve. I toyed for a moment with tidying up my pubic hair, but why bother? I didn’t think, if all went according to Plan A, that I’d have the panties on for long, or, if I chose Plan B—“If you like, you can watch. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I had been assured—it wouldn’t matter anyway.
    Sparkly earrings, yes. Perfume, definitely; I hoped our hosts would not have an allergic reaction.
    Willis eyed my living room as I grabbed my black suede jacket and a small clutch purse. “Very nice. And a cash flow with the apartment. Great neighborhood. How much equity do you have? Have you considered—”
    I stopped him with a kiss. “Stop being such a Realtor.”
    His hands closed on my butt. “Yeah, it’s time to play. Let’s go.”
    I guessed from his hyper attitude and the slight dusting of stubble on his jaw that he’d been at work that day. His tie was loosened and shirt sleeves rolled up despite the chill of the evening, and when we got to his car, a shiny BMW this time, I saw his suit jacket folded neatly on the backseat.
    The house we drove to was in the suburbs, where too many people tried to live their dream of a house in the mountains. Although the lots had pine trees you could see the neighbors’ lights and hear their dogs bark.
    Willis put the car in Park and turned to me. “Don’t be nervous, babe.”
    “I’m not nervous.”
    “You are. Body language. I’m an expert.” He leaned to kiss me and I slid down in my seat, wanting the moment to last, the sweetness of his mouth and scrape of his chin.
    “Okay.” Ever businesslike, he slipped off his tie, folded it and laid it on top of his jacket on the backseat. “Let’s go. Relax. They’re great folks. They’ll make you feel right at home.”
    The woman who answered the doorbell was wearing jeans and a T-shirt like I was,