He moved to lay the red dress over a chair, ensuring no part of it was creased.
And now he was living his fantasy from Franny’s first day in his house. He was loosening the lace of her stays. And the sound she made when he drew them up over her head—not the moan he had imagined, but a contented sigh that went straight to his cock—was a thousand times more arousing because it was real. It was Franny. His member twitched and he had to take a quick step back to keep from staining her petticoat with his tip.
But he didn’t reach around her to cup her breasts through her chemise. He was undressing her as she had asked. Her arms were still up in the air, and he lifted her chemise. Oh, the exquisite, pale beauty of the skin of her back, her little winged shoulder blades, the delicate architecture of her spine.
She had kissed his neck earlier so he leaned forward and brushed his lips against her nape, smelling her hair, feeling its soft tickle on his nose.
“Oh, Kit,” she sighed.
She turned around.
Her breasts were not the breasts of his dreams.
They were better.
Because they were hers.
She wasn’t a girl. She was a woman. So her breasts hung a bit lower than he had imagined. And the red, jaunty nipples weren’t red. They were dark pink with areolas a shade lighter. And those areolas were large, capping her breasts magnificently. As generous as the woman who possessed them.
“Do you want to touch them?” she asked, almost shyly.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Go ahead.”
He would exert control, delay that pleasure. “I have to finish undressing you first.”
He untied the drawstring of her petticoat. He raised his brows.
She answered, “Down. That can go down.”
He nodded and just as she had for him, he knelt. He loosened the drawstring and gently pulled the petticoat down. Her cunt was inches from his face. He could smell her musk. He froze.
“Stockings,” she whispered.
He forced his eyes and hands to move, undo garters, roll down thick wool stockings. Her hands were busy doing something to her head—taking out hairpins?
She was as naked as he, her dark-brown hair falling in waves around her shoulders.
He stood. “Would you turn around for me?”
Her face flushed pink and her hands fluttered. “I looked at you so I suppose it’s only fair.”
“Do you not want me to look at your ar—bottom?”
“It doesn’t match the rest of me.”
“You’re beautiful. And I’m sure it’s beautiful. So it does match.”
“I mean it’s so big, but . . .” She turned and he saw her arse in all its nude glory.
Yes. He was right. Of course, he was.
Her arse was beautiful.
Her cheeks were pert and round and meaty and perfect. She put the Callipygian Venus to shame. The Callipygian Venus was a wasted crone compared to Franny.
And he knew he wasn’t supposed to win every argument, but he was going to win this one.
