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“What is it? What am I… asking for?”
A vein appears on his temple, all alive and beating. “What do you think a girl asks for when she’s wearing a dress like that?”
Finally I come out of my stupor and snap my gaze down to my dress.
And cringe.
Because it has to be the most revealing dress I’ve ever owned. Bought by my mother for my birthday, no less, that I’d shoved to the back of my closet up until tonight.
It has a plunging neckline that displays the slopes of my breasts while also pushing them together in a way that makes that slope really steep and deep. Followed by clinging so fiercely to the rest of my body, my hips specifically, that people could map out the entire shape of me with just one look.
Dresses are not my style at all, much less a dress like this one. I usually just pull on a pair of jeans, throw on a t-shirt, and call it a day. So I’ve been feeling really out of place in this. And now that he’s commented on it, I just want to disappear in a hole and never come out.
But I stay strong.
And professional.
“I don’t think we should talk about this,” I say primly.
His tone remains angry. “Bythis, you mean the general state of your undress, do you?”
“There’s no general state of my undress, all right? There’s…” I take a deep breath. “I’m not discussing my dress with you.”
“Not even how you’re spilling out of it,” he stays on the topic.
“I —”
“Or how it leaves nothing to the goddamn imagination.”
“It…” Another deep breath while tingles and goosebumps take over my body. “No, not even then.”
He takes a step closer to me and I have to point out that it’s a very small step, a minuscule step, but everything feels so exaggerated in this moment. Everything feels big and loud and thunderous.
Just like his furious features.
“So then, you like men staring at you, Meadow?”
“I don’t —”
“Because I’ve gotta hand it to you.” He flicks his eyes up and down my body really quickly. “I never would’ve guessed that about you.”
“No one is staring at me. No one even cares. No one —”
He dips his face even closer, licking that plump upper lip. “I am.”
Back when I was younger, I would always want to hide my body. I used to get so frustrated over the fact that there was so much of my body to cover up and hide. When I grew up and started to feel okay with who I was, that urge passed.
Even so I’ve never felt the urge — not once — to show it off.
I’ve never felt the urge to bow my spine and thrust my breasts forward, to expose them more.
Not for other men.
But for him.
Whose eyes are flashing and whose skin looks forged by the sun.
“Well then, stop,” I tell him as my throat dries out rapidly.
