and suddenly my hand is in his hand?—
warm, steady, outstretched, like he caught me from slipping off a ledge I didn't see coming. Then he’s pulling me up from the sagging chair, his gaze dropping to my bare thighs before my dress slips back into place.
His eyes drag back up again,
landing on my mouth,
then my eyes.
“Allison,” he repeats, trying it out,
his voice a fade,
lost in the syllables.
Then he says it again,
quieter,
holding it in his mouth,
keeping it safe inside him.
I’m not wearing a bra under this dress.
I like the way it clings, slips, falls just right.
And I like the way he’s fighting himself from looking.
The way his eyes want to drift down again,
slower a second time.
The way he wants to see all of me,
memorize me,
burn me into his head, heart, bones.
“Allison,” he says under his breath.
Then again.
And again.
One more time.
Or a thousand times.
I won’t stop you.
His throat bobs. His blush floods.
I watch it climb his neck again,
tinting the tops of his ears this time.
He smiles. “I… uh…”
