Miller
A thousand images flicker through my head at her declaration. And it is a declaration. It’s practically a war cry.
I only bought this dress so you could take it off.
The first image—naturally—is doing just that. Taking off her dress. Slowly, the same way I’ve been winding up her trailing scarves. With gentle, attentive care.
Or not.
Maybe just ripping it off.
Or maybe fucking her with it on. There’s a counter in the bathroom that’s the perfect height to set her on before diving under those skirts and losing myself in the taste of her.
So yeah, I can take off the dress or leave it on.Either way, the thought of seeing more of her naked makes me even harder than I’ve been for most of the night.
But then that first part of the sentence registers.
Her buying the dress.
That gorgeous fucking dress that hugs all of her curves and floats around her like she’s some kind of damn fairy princess. A very grown-up, very fuckable fairy princess. But still.
It’s the intention behind her buying that dress. For me to take it off.That’swhat kills me. What stops me cold.
Because she thought about this. Not just the dress, but the hair clips and the handbag. She picked out this dress with hopes. Plans. Maybe even dreams.
Plans I have every intention of acting on.
But not tonight.
Because I’ve watched her all evening. Studied her. Just like I’ve been watching her and studying her for years. I watched her go from giddy and excited to relaxed and confident. To small and timid. To loud and rebellious.
I love all her emotions. I’ve got space for all of them. But it’s been a lot.
And I’m pretty sure that when she bought thisdress, when she imagined me taking it off, she didn’t imagine it like this.
I’m pretty quick on my feet, but not quick enough to think through all that without a pause long enough to shatter a heart.
And I see it in her eyes. I took too long to answer, and she thinks I’m rejecting her.
Her chin bumps up to an angle so defiant she almost tips over backward. And then she gives a huff of indignation.
“Obviously, you had other ideas.” She snatches the scarf from my hands. “That’s fine. Perfect even. Because I’m an adult. I don’t need you to take off my dress.”
She breaks off mid-rant, and tips her head to the side, as though she’s hearing her own words after they come out of her mouth.
“And that’s not even a metaphor.” She seems to have some convoluted debate with herself before continuing. “Or maybe it is. Maybe Icantake my dress off myself.”
It takes every ounce of self-control to stifle both a laugh and a groan as the metaphor she’s playing with lands.
“I’d like to see that,” I mutter before I have the good sense to keep my ideas to myself.
She pauses. Hesitates, looking first confused and then tentatively hopeful.
“What do you mean?” She threads the scarf through her fingers while giving me a suspicious side-eye. “Do you mean the metaphor version or the not metaphor version?”
“Either. Both.” Another damn image flickers through my mind, and once again I’m so hard I can barely think straight. I close my eyes for a second as I muster some restraint and blow out a breath. “Yeah. Definitely both. Just not tonight.”
She frowns, looking adorably confused.
