“Tell you—” He pulls away, his pupils wide, his breathing harsh. “Tell you something?”
“Yes,” I say.
He hitches me higher against his body, then turns from the door, walking us the short distance to the bed.
“Like what?” he asks.
“Anything,” I say as he lowers me to the comforter.
“Anything?”
I nod. I shuffle backward, and he follows me. “Anything,” I say again. “As long as it’s true.”
His mouth curves up then, soft and gentle. “Anything,” he repeats, his voice quiet. He looks at me, thoughtful for a moment, and then I feel his fingers at the hem of my dress.
“Okay,” he says. His thumb plays right at the edge of the fabric, brushing against the skin of my thigh.
It feels so good, an absent sort of caress that makes me feel heavy, my body sinking into the mattress.
He lowers himself, hovering over me, his face taking up my entire field of vision.
“I have to tell you…”
“Yeah?”
“I hated this dress.”
My mouth falls open. “What?”
His fingers form a fist, crumpling the fabric, pulling it higher. “I hated it,” he says. “When I first saw you in it. At the wedding.”
“Hey!” I rise up on my elbows, but stop when he continues.
“You were…so gorgeous and put-together and completely off-limits.” He kisses me, and I melt into it, melting further when his open mouth travels down the curve of my neck. “And then you asked me to unzip you,” he says. “And it was cruel. Finally having my hands back on you, but not in the way I wanted.” He pulls at my skin, his teeth nipping, and I gasp. “Having to restrain myself. Terrified that you would see the way it affected me. Angry at myself for being affected at all.
“And then I saw you wear it today, and it was—I couldn’t—seeing you back in that dress. Remembering how it looked unzipped, parted down the line of your back, the lace of your bra visible.” He trails a finger over my shoulder, tracing the exposed strap of my bra, and I shiver. “All of it came back to me. And I tried—I tried to think about something else, anything else, but that was all I could see.”
His lips come back to my neck, and I arch into him.
“Help me take it off again,” I mumble. I try to turn so he can access the zipper, but he stops me.
“Not yet,” he says. He kisses me, his mouth soft and warm and firm. “It’s your turn.”
“My turn for…”
“Your turn to tell me something,” he says.
“Oh.” I blink up at him, his face illuminated by the lamp on the nightstand. I can see the faint stubble growing in along his jaw, and his eyes are bright and shining, the color of whiskey. And with theway he’s leaning over me, his hair flops in every direction, some of it falling over his forehead.
I reach up and push that piece back, and he closes his eyes at the touch.
“I…okay, let me preface this by saying I’m saying it for the same reason you did.”
His eyes fly back open, his expression a touch bemused.
“Okay,” he says slowly.
“Okay,” I say. “I…I hate your kilt.”
