Bonus Chapter: The Garment Rack

The Friend I Keep Undressing — Bonus Content
by Blair Lennox

⚠️ This bonus chapter contains EXPLICIT sexual content and takes place two months after the events of The Friend I Keep Undressing. Spoilers ahead. 18+ only.

The invitation arrived as a text at 4:47 p.m. on a Thursday.

Emmy: Studio’s empty after 5. Allie left early. I have the key.

Three sentences. No context. No explanation. Emmy Price had learned, over the course of eight months together, that Bridget Lane did not require context when the context was obvious.

I looked at the text. I looked at the clock. I looked at the client file I was reviewing — a television actress who needed a Golden Globes dress and who was, at this moment, significantly less interesting than the mental image of an empty styling studio with a lock on the door.

I typed: What about the meeting at 6?

Emmy: Moved it to 6:30.

Bridget: That gives us forty-three minutes.

Emmy: I only need thirty. But I appreciate your faith in my stamina.

I closed the client file. Picked up my bag. Told no one where I was going because the where was my own studio and the why was none of anyone’s business.

The elevator ride was four floors. I spent it adjusting my collar and pretending my pulse wasn’t already climbing. Eight months in and the anticipation hadn’t dimmed. If anything it had sharpened — the knowing made it worse, because I didn’t have to imagine what Emmy’s mouth felt like anymore. I had data. Extensive, peer-reviewed, replicated-under-controlled-conditions data.

She was sitting on the velvet consultation sofa when I walked in, one leg crossed over the other, wearing a look I hadn’t styled — a fitted white T-shirt, dark jeans, boots. Hair down. No makeup.

“You moved the meeting,” I said, setting my bag on the desk.

“You showered at 4 p.m. on a Thursday. That’s premeditation.”

“I had a thought,” she said. She touched my collar. “My thought was that I’ve spent eight months watching you work behind these racks and I’ve never once fucked you against them.”

I grabbed the front of her T-shirt and pulled.

We made it four steps before I had her against the sample rack. The hangers rattled. A cashmere blazer swung sideways. She laughed against my mouth.

“Bridget. Prioritize.”

I prioritized. I kissed her hard, my hands shoving the T-shirt up her ribs. She wasn’t wearing a bra. I cupped her breasts, rolled her nipples between my fingers, pinching harder when she gasped.

“You love this rack.”

“I love you more. Shut up.”

She shut up. Briefly. Until I dropped to my knees.

I unbuttoned her jeans on the studio floor with late afternoon light painting amber stripes across her stomach. I pulled down her underwear and pressed my mouth against her through the fabric first — mouthing at her through the cotton until the fabric was wet from both of us and she was gripping the garment bar above her head making sounds that were going to haunt every professional fitting I conducted in this studio for the rest of my career.

“Bridge — stop teasing, I swear to God—”

I pulled the cotton down and pressed my mouth between her bare legs before it hit the floor. She grabbed the garment bar with both hands — the chrome rang like a bell. I could see us in the full-length mirror across the room — Emmy naked from the waist down, gripping chrome, her T-shirt rucked up above her breasts, and me on my knees in my tailored trousers and silk blouse with my face buried between her thighs. The image was obscene and gorgeous.

I worked her fast. My tongue found her clit and pressed hard, circling in the rhythm I’d perfected over hundreds of mornings and nights. She was soaking wet. I gripped her thighs, hooked one of her legs over my shoulder, slid two fingers inside her while my tongue worked above. Her body opened for me with the eager, reflexive clench of a woman whose muscles knew exactly what was coming.

I curled my fingers forward. Found the spot. Pressed.

“Fuck — right there — Bridge, don’t stop—”

I sealed my lips around her clit and sucked while my fingers worked inside her in a steady, relentless rhythm, and she came with a shout that rattled every hanger on the rack. Her hand fisted in my hair and pulled so hard my eyes watered and I loved it — loved the raw, unfiltered evidence that the woman who commanded stages for a living lost every shred of performance when I put my mouth on her.

A silk blouse slid off its hanger and landed on her head. She pulled it off, dazed.

“Is this the Valentino?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be more careful.”

“You’ll be nothing of the sort.”

She grinned and pulled me up by my collar. “Your turn. I’ve been thinking about this since Tuesday.”

She spun me around. My back hit the rack. She dropped to her knees and unzipped my trousers and pulled them down with my underwear in one motion and pressed her mouth to the crease of my hip. Not where I wanted her. Close. Deliberately, maddeningly close.

“You teased me through my underwear. I’m returning the favor.”

“I will fire you as my girlfriend.”

“You can’t fire a girlfriend. That’s not how relationships—”

“Emmy.”

She put her mouth on me. She’d gotten devastatingly good at this — eight months of devoted practice, and she’d learned to play me with a virtuosity that was frankly insulting given that she’d spent the first thirty years of her life not knowing she liked women.

Her tongue moved in long, focused strokes. Her hands gripped my hips, pinning me to the rack. She shifted her technique — tight fast circles, then flat pressure, then sucking gently, then circling again. The variation was relentless, keeping me suspended on the edge, building without letting me crest.

She looked up at me. Eyes open. Mouth still working. The eye contact while her tongue circled my clit was the thing that always sent me over. She slid two fingers inside me. Curled them. Pressed her tongue flat and held.

I came so hard my vision went white. Hands locked on the chrome bar, spine arched, thighs clamped around her head, a sound coming out of me that was barely human.

She stood. Kissed me. I tasted myself on her mouth. We leaned against the rack together, breathing hard, surrounded by fallen hangers and the beautiful wreckage of two women who couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

“How much time?”

“Fourteen minutes.”

“Your desk. I have an idea about your desk.”

Her idea involved clearing the desk with one sweep — Hart & Cole contracts, fabric swatches, cold tea, my favorite pen, all cascading to the floor — and lifting me onto the edge.

“That was a seven-hundred-dollar contract binder.”

“I can afford it. I’m a famous comedian.” She stepped between my legs, pushed my thighs apart. The wood was cool against my bare skin. The contrast — cool desk, warm hands, the hot slick mess we’d already made of each other — made me shiver.

She kissed my throat, my collarbone, the hollow between my breasts where the silk blouse was still hanging open. The combination of silk against one breast and tongue against the other made me grip the edge of the desk hard enough to dent the wood.

“I love that you look completely put together from the waist up and completely wrecked from the waist down. Very on-brand for you.”

“Shut up and touch me.”

Her hand slid between my legs. I was so wet from the first round that the sound her fingers made pushing inside me was obscene. Her thumb found my clit, already swollen and hypersensitive. She set a rhythm — two fingers deep inside me, thumb circling my clit, her mouth on my neck sucking a mark I would definitely not bother covering. I wrapped my legs around her waist and locked my ankles behind her.

“Look at me,” she said.

“I love you,” she said. “I love you and I love this studio and I love that you built this and I love that you let me in.”

I came violently — back arching off the desk, legs tightening around her waist, her name cracking in the air. She held me through it, her fingers still inside me, her forehead against mine. When the aftershocks subsided, she withdrew slowly and brought her wet fingers to her mouth and tasted me with the satisfied expression of a woman who had found her favorite thing and intended to keep doing it for the foreseeable future.

We were seven minutes late to the meeting. Daria raised an eyebrow. Nomi, on the video call, mouthed GET IT before the screen share covered her face.

In the elevator, Emmy straightened my collar. “Your lipstick. It’s on your neck. And your collarbone. And — is that a hickey?”

“That’s YOUR hickey.”

“It’s a good one. Very symmetrical. I’m proud of it.”

She buttoned my top button. Smoothed the collar. “Perfect.”

“Thank YOU. For the studio. And the garment rack. And the desk. And the fourteen minutes.”

“Seven of those minutes were yours.”

“I’m very efficient when motivated.”

Emmy took my hand. We walked into the meeting together. Mine. She was mine. And I was hers. Publicly, permanently, without a single qualifier.

I left the lipstick on my neck. I left the hickey uncovered. Allie would see them in the morning and blush so hard she’d match the Valentino blouse currently crumpled on the studio floor.

I didn’t care. Let her see. Let everyone see.

That was the whole point.

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