I stand over her for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her chest.
Then, she stirs.
A pained sound escapes her throat. Her brow furrows, and her hands fumble clumsily at her waist.
"Tight," she moans.
She tries to roll over, her fingers scratching against the silk at her side. She’s fighting the dress like it’s a net.
"Get it off," she whimpers, tugging at the neckline. "Can't breathe."
The drug has wrecked her motor skills. She can't find the zipper and claws at her own skin, leaving faint red trails of fire.
"Stop," I say, my voice low.
She doesn't hear me. She gives a frustrated sob, tearing at the dress. "Take it off. Please."
I sigh. I can't watch her hurt herself.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I capture her hands, stopping her frantic movements.
"Stop it," I command. "I’ll do it."
She goes limp at my touch, her head falling back against the pillow.
I find the hidden zipper at the side and carefully peel the dress down. She lifts her hips obediently when I guide her, too far gone to realize who is touching her.
I pull the garment down her legs and toss it onto the floor.
She sighs, a long sound of relief, and curls into a ball on the black sheets.
I freeze, staring down at what lies beneath the silk.
She’s left in nothing but a matching set of black lace lingerie.
My eyes trace the curve of her body. The black lace bra cups her breasts perfectly, the sheer material teasing the darkness of her nipples beneath, rising and falling with her breath.
My gaze travels lower, over the dip of her waist to the scrap of lace at her hips. The thong leaves nothing to the imagination.
My blood heats, a throbbing ache rushing south. She’s perfect, and she’s right here, in my bed, defenseless.
She shivers instantly, pulling her knees to her chest, breaking my trance.
I glance at the red dress on the floor. I can't put that back on her, but I can't leave her shivering—or exposed.
I walk to the dresser, pull open a drawer, and grab a plain black T-shirt. It’s soft cotton, smelling faintly of my detergent and cedar.
I walk back to the bed.
"Sit up," I command.
She doesn’t. The drug has rendered her nothing but a puddle of woman.
I pull her up, supporting her back with my arm. Her head rolls against my chest, her nose pressing into my shirt.
"Arms up," I say.
She obeys weakly, lifting her arms like a child.
