Marcus put his hand on his cane and started to stand, then thought better of it. He couldn’t very well invite himself into her dressing room, even if it was to help her.
Seconds ticked by, and he heard Heather groan impatiently, which somehow managed to be endearing.
He stood but didn’t move towards her door. She made the little sound again, and he smiled to himself. He should alert Izzy, who could rescue her.
“Do you need some help?” he asked, right as she said, “Can you please help?”
Marcus froze, then gave himself another little shake and walked over. She wasn’t asking him to undress her, she was asking him to help her get undressed, and there was a world of difference between the two. Still, he hovered awkwardly outside the door for a moment, and glanced over his shoulder at the cash register, where Izzy was folding the leotards into pale pink tissue paper. He tapped quietly with his knuckles.
The lock slid back, and he pushed the door open gently to sidle inside. “Thanks,” she said, sounding relieved.
Heather stood with her back to the mirror, craning her head over her shoulder and examining the back of the tutu. In the mirror, he could see the skin of her upper back through the dark green lace, and as she twisted her body, he watched the tight fabric cling to her small, pert breasts and her narrow, muscled waist.
“They’re these tiny hooks and eyes,” she murmured, without looking at him. She brought her hands to the waistband and twisted it at the point where it closed. “I think they’re just really snug because it’s new.”
Marcus’s mouth had gone too dry to manage a reply. She was so close, and she smelled like lavender and heat. Half of him wanted to throw open the door and get as far away from her as he could. The other half wanted to slam the door and lock them in here together forever. Instead, he closed the door carefully, hoping Izzy hadn’t noticed his absence or seen where he’d gone. He propped his cane in the corner and leant against the wall.
“Let me try,” he said quietly, and she turned and backed up towards him. He bent down, keeping his hips propped against the wall, and took a closer look at the closure on the skirt. This close to her, he could smell her shampoo. He slipped his fingers carefully inside the waistband and felt his mouth go even drier as his heart began to race. The fabric of the leotard was soft against his hands, and he tried not to think about this one thin velvety layer being the only thing between his fingers and Heather’s bare skin. For one short, idiotic moment, he let himself imagine he was undressing her, not just helping her. The thought made blood rush in his ears, and his hands shook around the closure.
Marcus leant closer still, applying pressure to the top hook and pushing it out of the eye.
“That’s one down,” he said, his voice low, victorious. He looked up at the mirror and saw that her eyes were glued to him, watching his hands as he worked. She lifted her gaze, and their eyes met in the mirror. He was suddenly aware that she’d been holding her breath this whole time.
“Breathe,” he said, straightening and giving her a tiny, cheeky smile. “We’ll get you out of this. You will not have to go to the zoo in a tutu.”
She exhaled slowly, her ribs relaxing above his hands. Then she turned to face him.
**
Heather stood in the dressing room, which felt spacious before Marcus slipped inside, bringing warm air and a faint musk with him. Maybe it was the jet lag, or the comforting way he’d joked with her. She didn’t know, exactly. All she knew was she wanted to kiss him now. And before she could second-guess herself or remind herself of the rules that prohibited exactly that, she’d spun, swiftly and decisively, to face him.
Now, though, it felt like she was moving through honey. Slowly, gathering her courage along the way, she raised her chin to meet his eyes. He was looking at her, his hands still at her waist, loose but impossible to ignore, his eyes green and golden and full of unmistakable surprise.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, pumping heat and panic and desire through her. They stood, unmoving, her eyes locked on his. As the seconds stretched, the panic threatened to take over. He didn’t want to kiss her; he was looking for a polite way out of this unbearably awkward situation, and in a second, he would open the door and call Izzy to help extricate her from this goddamn skirt.
But then his hands tightened at her waist, and he pulled her gently towards him, flattening the tulle of the tutu as he drew her body against his. She raised her arms and pressed her palms to the walls on either side of him, steadying herself, then rose on the balls of her feet to brush her lips lightly, carefully, against his. They were as soft as she’d imagined.
Marcus was still for a moment, and all she could feel was the tulle prickling the tops of her thighs and the heat radiating from his skin. Then he opened his lips and captured her mouth, lowering his head and kissing her steadily, insistently. He ran one warm, flat palm up her back and settled it between her shoulder blades, bringing her closer and holding her there as she slipped her tongue into his mouth. She tasted spearmint and a hint of coffee, and when his tongue answered hers, Heather let out a tiny, involuntary moan of relief and wanting.
He tilted his head to gain more access to her mouth, and Heather moved her hands from the wall to his solid, muscular chest. He inhaled sharply when she touched him, and then let out his own small groan of arousal. The sound made Heather’s nipples harden against the thin fabric of the leotard, and desire gathered between her legs, pulsing demandingly as she grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt.
The feeling of air against his skin seemed to knock Marcus out of the dreamlike moment, and he pulled away, straightening and loosening his hold on her slightly. He gazed down at her, looking slightly dazed, and Heather realized she was panting. She hadn’t felt lust like this in years. Her hand shook slightly as she released his shirt.
“We should get you out of this skirt,” he murmured.
Heather nodded, unable to form coherent words.Yes, she thought.Get me out of this skirt, out of this leotard, out of this skin if you have to. Then she remembered where they were: in a fitting room, in a dancewear store, mere feet away from a very attentive manager who would surely be wondering why Marcus had vanished and why Heather hadn’t emerged yet.
She nodded again, more fervently this time, and turned back so Marcus could undo the rest of the closures. Her heart was still pounding, and feeling his hands slip back under the skirt’s waistband didn’t help. But now her arousal was laced with anxiety: she needed to get control of herself, and he needed to get out of the fitting room before his absence was noted.
“Just undo one more,” she muttered over her shoulder. “I can probably pull it off after that.”
He made a small assenting noise, and she felt his breath on her bare shoulder.
“There,” he said a few seconds later. His warm hands left her waist, and she instantly wanted them back. “That should do it.”
“Thanks,” she said with a reluctant smile.
Marcus picked up his cane and unlocked the door, easing back out as carefully as he’d come in. As the door swung shut, Heathershimmied the skirt down and let it drop to the floor. Standing there in only the leotard, she turned to look at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her nipples were clearly visible through the clingy green fabric. Her own chest rose and fell rapidly in the mirror, and the memory of Marcus’s hand, flat and firm and warm between her shoulder blades, made her want to check if he’d left a mark.
