I slide one arm out of the lace, then the other, the gown slipping from my shoulders in a whisper. The fabric pools at my waist, and I clutch the front of it to my chest, the air kissing bare skin that feels suddenly new. Trey stands a breath away, silent.
“Here,” he says quietly, stepping in, voice deep and rough from something he’s fighting to keep down. “Just step out and head into the closet. You’ll find anything you need.”
He crouches before me, holding the gown open for me to step out. His head bows, dark hair falling forward, and for a moment he looks like a man at prayer. I rest my hand on his shoulder for balance, and his muscles flex beneath my fingers. Heat radiates through the fine cotton of his shirt, his body solid. When I move, the lace slides down, pooling against his knees.
Now I’m standing there, bare before him—delicate lace and satin, the kind Mac calledbridal perfection. The bra soft and sheer, the matching panties clinging to my hips, silk garters holding pale stockings in place. My skin prickles under his gaze, every inch aware of him kneeling there, still as stone, the dress gathered loosely in his shaking hands.
Trey doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
His throat works once, hard, and I hear the rough drag of his breath as he looks up at me. His eyes—God, those eyes—are darker than I’ve ever seen them, stormy, burning, full of things neither of us are brave enough to say.
The room feels too small. The air too thick. My heart too loud. His chest rises, trembles. Then, quietly—so quietly I almost don’t catch it—he exhales.
“Go on, Dove.” The sound of that word on his tongue—soft, mine, turns my knees weak.
He's shaking.
I can see it in his hands, the faint tremor of restraint as he clutches the lace between his fingers, fighting every instinct to look away—or to look more. I take a step back, my breath unsteady, and turn toward the closet, his gaze burning into me until the door closes softly between us. Only then do I let out abreath I’ve been holding. And behind me, through the wood, I swear I can still hear him breathe my name.
Chapter twenty-five
Trey
Pretty Please – Dutch Melrose, Benny Blane
The second the door clicks shut, I drop my head back and drag in a breath that scorches my lungs.
What the fucking shit was that?
Devil woman.
She’s the devil.
Asking me to undress her?
What am I supposed to do—tell her to handle it herself?
Not fucking likely.
Fuck.
My hands are shaking, the weight of her dress clutched between them like it might burn through my palms if I hold it any longer. It’s warm—and for a second, I just stare at the lace and silk bunched in my grip.
Why do I want to inhale it like a rip from a bong.
The same lace that moments ago was wrapped around her body like it was made for her skin.
My wife.
The words hit harder than I expect. Echoing through my head, tightening something deep inside my chest. I set the gown carefully across the bed, palms pressed flat to the fabric as if smoothing it out could calm the riot inside me. It doesn’t. My pulse is still hammering, jaw clenched so tightly it aches.
All I can see is her.
Standing there in that delicate white lace, the garters hugging her thighs, stockings tracing soft lines over her skin. Her breath catching when she realized I was still watching. The way her lips parted, trembling slightly. Innocent. Unsure. But not afraid.
God, not afraid.
She should be.
