Reason number two?
I’d have to get Dorian’s measurements.
And how exactly was I supposed to do that?
Hey, babe, can you stand still while I wrap a tape measure around your waist? Why? No reason. You need a reason? Fuck. Okay. Nevermind. Bye. Love you.
Yeah. That wouldn’t raise any questions at all. I leaned back in my chair again, crossing my arms.
“This is stupid,” I told myself. “It’s weird. It’s expensive. And you don’t even know if he’d like it.”
Dorian liked a lot of weird stuff, but still, this felt like a gamble. What if he got offended for some reason? What if he got mad because it was so expensive? What if he laughed at it…? At… me?
No. I couldn’t do it.
But, unfortunately, my brain refused to drop it.
The thought just kept circling.
For days.
Every time Dorian stretched and his shirt rode up a little.
Every time he walked past me in those low-rise black jeans he liked.
Every time I caught a glimpse of the narrow line of his waist between his tattoos.
My brain helpfully supplied the same cursed image.
Corset.
Corset from the back.
Corset from the front.
Corset from the side.
After about a week of that, I opened the website again.
Just tolook.
Looking was free.
Looking was harmless.
Totally normal behavior.
Except now I had a new problem.
Measurements.
The page listed them very clearly—chest, waist, underbust, and back length.
I stared at the list.
Then I stared up the stairs toward our bedroom.
Then back at the screen.
