Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I take it off without showing her. Try the next.
A long, black dress in layers of chiffon.
It's a lot. Too much even. But I suppose that's what makes something fancy.
High heels were originally worn by noble men. They were pure status symbol. Look at these impractical heels. I can wear them because I spend the day on my ass. No need to walk, stand, work.
Hundreds of years and now women are expected to wear heels at work and play. Pumps at the office, stilettos at dinner, wedges at the park.
I live in my heeled combat boots. And I'm not exactly Miss Low-effort when it comes to style.
I touch up my roots every eight weeks. Refresh my color twice a month. Spend twenty minutes on my makeup.
Sure, I'm not trying to look flawless. I'm not applying makeup to look prettier, exactly.
But I'm still painting my features, changing my look, molding myself into something different.
I study the gown. Backless. Thin straps that crisscross. No good with a bra.
I shimmy out of mine. Pull the zipper on the skirt. Adjust the top.
Plunging neckline. Open back. Long, dramatic skirt.
It's undeniably sexy.
And undeniably me.
Cynthia lights up as I step into the main room. Addie gasps. Lock whispers something to her.
The dress is popular.
It's gorgeous. And sleek. The fabric is so smooth it rolls off my skin. Like fingertips skimming my thigh.
Like Ian—
Ahem.
I swallow my fantasy. Focus on my reflection. On pleasing my limited crowd.
When I spin, Addie gasps.
"You look amazing," she says. "So pretty and grown-up too."
Cynthia isn't as sold. "It's lovely. For the weekend. For dinner—" Her eyes light up with an epiphany. "I know just the thing."
She rushes me into the dressing room. Buzzes to the rack. Grabs another dress.
At a glance, it's the same. A long black number made of chiffon.
But I'm not arguing over a free dress.
I undo the zipper. Push the straps off my shoulders. Watch the black fabric fall off my chest.
It collects at my waist. A stark contrast against my light skin.
So clearly half-off. So clearly rushed.
I'm so clearly exposed.
My sex clenches.
My thighs shake.
My fingers dig into the chiffon.
Already, I want him here. Behind me.
His lips on my neck, his hands on my skin, his voice in my ears.
I want to feel him hard against me.
Inside me.
The thought overwhelms me. What is it like?
I've read books that mention fullness. Satisfaction. Pain. Pressure. Pleasure.
I don't like asking friends. They laugh at my inexperience even when they mean well. And Addie—who I trust not to laugh—has no idea.
Though—
Nope. Not thinking about whether or not my sister uses dildos with her girlfriend. Or by herself.
That's mood killing.
Until my gaze returns to the mirror. The thought of him overwhelms the awkwardness.
I want to be exposed for him.
On display for him.
My breath catches in my throat.
My hands move for me. My phone. The camera.
A picture of the mirror. From my lips to my hips. My bare shoulders and chest, the tips of my teal hair, the dress at my waist.
The sparrow on my left shoulder.
It's clearly me.
And I—
I'm going crazy. I put my cell away. Slide out of the dress. Into the other.
As soon as my gaze hits my reflection, my body goes into overdrive.
I want to take a million pictures. Send them to Ian. Ask for his in return.
It's too dangerous. Too risky. Those pictures could end up anywhere.
But maybe if he starts…
No. I really am going crazy.
I need to pick out this dress, get lunch, find more caffeine.
Okay, I need to pick out the dress, get lunch, go home, and touch myself to thoughts of him.
But still, I need to pick out the dress.
Ahem.
This one is sexier than the last. Another deep plunge. The same open back. A slit in the skirt. Cut all the way to my hip.
High enough to show the edge of my cotton panties.
High enough I should skip the panties.
I take a deep breath. Will it to lower my temperature. Step into the main room.
My eyes go straight to the three-panel mirror. My thoughts go straight to the gutter. Him, behind me, ordering me to strip for his viewing pleasure.
Ordering me to touch myself.
To touch him.
To watch as I come.
To watch as he comes.
"Perfect." Cynthia marvels at her handiwork. Fails to notice the blush spreading to my chest. Or decides not to call me on it. "Don't you think?"
"Yes. It is. And I, uh… is that all?" I ask. "Because I…"
"You're blushing," Addie says.
"I am not." The lie does not help matters.
"She likes that one," Addie says. "You should get it. And while you're here… a few more things. People will notice if you wear that dress twice in a week."
"It is going to make an impression." Lock nods.
"Okay. A few more things." I move into the dressing room. Turn my back to the mirror as I strip. It helps keep my dirty thoughts at bay.