“Do you think you could help me… with this dress?”
“Sure,” he says, so I take a step into his bedroom, and then I see him walk out.
No tux jacket, no button-up shirt, just bare chest and perfect skin, his tux pants unzipped, hanging loose around his hips.
He goes very still when he realizes that my eyes bulge when I see him.
I’ve seen half-naked men every day of my career. Many male dancers don’t wear shirts. But this is different. I’ve never seen Scottie half-dressed… and that’s a different image altogether.
I can’t help the way I stare at him, all the dirty thoughts that just ran through my mind of being alone in Scottie’s room on our wedding night. But then I remember that I’m still a virgin, that this marriage is fake, and that Scottie has probably never been with a woman as inexperienced as me.
I’m actually mortified at the idea of him learning that his new bride wouldn't know the first thing to do with him. I mean, I’m not a total prude. I’ve had opportunities, but work and school and striving to work harder than anyone else and break out, making a name for myself, has taken up all of my energy.
I turn around quickly, giving him my back.
“Ummm,” I stutter. “I can’t reach most of these,” I say, the words low. “Would you…?”
His gaze drops to the buttons. I can feel it like a touch, the way his attention traces the path they make down my spine.
He swallows. The sound is audible in the quiet room.
“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rough. “Yeah. I can… help.”
“I am not in the habit of asking men to undress me,” I say evenly. “I would not ask if I had another option.”
A huff of laughter escapes him. “Fair enough.”
He steps closer.
I feel the heat of him before I feel his hands.
His fingertips brush the back of my neck as he finds the first button.
My breath catches.
He works slowly. Carefully. Each tiny pearl slides free under his thumbs with a soft, almost inaudible pop. With every button he undoes, the dress eases a fraction, cool air sneaking in to kiss skin that has been trapped all day.
His knuckles graze the bare line of my spine.
Goosebumps ripple across my shoulders and down my back.
“Are you doing okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, though my voice sounds different in my own ears—breathier, thinner. “Just…cold.”
Liar.
He undoes another button. And another.
The repetitive motion becomes a quiet rhythm, each one an exclamation mark in the silence between us. The only sounds are the faint whisper of fabric, the click of pearl slipping free of its loop, our breaths.
His are not as steady as he wants them to be.
He gets to the midpoint of my back and hesitates. I can feel the warmth of his hands hovering just above my skin.
“If you want me to stop…” he says softly.
“I don’t,” I answer, before I lose my nerve.
