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Anastasia owns three types of clothes—baggy trousers, oversized shirts, and hoodies. Oh, and sexy-as-fuck lace panties.
Those are the only things in her closet.
So where the fuck did she get that dress from?
A tight black one that reveals her curves in silhouette form. Its straps might as well be nonexistent; not only are they thin and barely cover anything, but one of them also falls down her shoulder constantly. Although the dress isn’t too short, it reveals her pale legs and fuck-me heels. She’s also released her black hair, letting it fall in waves to her shoulders.
She seems to be wearing some makeup, too, even though she still has those thick glasses on.
My dick instantly twitches to life and I have to adjust the sorry fuck with teenage fantasies.
Or maybe they’re not teenage-level, after all, because the only thought running through my head is to rip that dress off her and fuck her on its shreds. With those heels on.
I don’t really care what she looks like, but this appearance is eerily similar to the first time I saw her in that bar.
Though she’s not a blonde and she doesn’t have those enchanting blue eyes, the aura is similar.
And for some reason, that Anastasia seems more real than the Jane persona she’s hiding behind.
A straw hangs in her mouth as she drinks from a sparkly blue glass and frantically checks her surroundings.
She looks a little bit lost, unfocused, almost like all the external stimuli are about to crush her in their clutches. I can taste her anxiety in the air with every step I take toward her.
Not only is she gripping her drink tight, but she also adjusts her glasses every second and lowers her head whenever she makes random eye contact with someone.
Inexplicably, that makes me want to reach out to people’s eyeballs and blind them for causing her to feel such distress.
For being the cause of her discomfort.
And that’s wrong, isn’t it?
I’m not supposed to be on the verge of losing it only because she’s staring at people and hates it. I’m not supposed to be this worked up about a girl who’s so secretive about who she is that it drives me bloody insane sometimes.
Upon seeing me approaching, her posture stiffens and she’s about to stand up, but before she does, I sit beside her and grab her by the thigh. “Where do you think you’re going, beautiful?”
“To find Gwen and the others.”
“Why? To parade this new look of yours? I thought Jane doesn’t like dressing up.”
“I…don’t. Gwen made me do it.”
“Hmm. But you went along with it anyway. Maybe you do like it.” My voice is too calm, despite the unhinged emotions going on inside me at the same time.
She lifts her chin. “Maybe I do.”
“What did you just say?”
“I said, maybe I do like it.”
“What exactly? Dressing up in a low-cut dress or coming to clubs to show it off? Or maybe it’s dancing with boys and having them look at what that dress hides. Maybe you want them to imagine what’s underneath it.” My fingers latch onto the fallen strap and I lift it up her shoulder, enjoying her shudder. “Maybe you like being a little fucking tease.”
“Maybe…I do.”
“Is that so?” I snap the strap back in place, my voice battling to keep its cool, but my touch is sure and firm as I sneak my other hand that’s on her thigh underneath her dress. “Do you want them to feel what it’s like between your thighs, beautiful?”
She places her drink on the table, hands trembling when my fingers meet the edge of her underwear. “No…”
“No…what? You don’t want them to feel how soaking wet you are, my little liar?” I glide my fingers against her folds, then twirl her clit, and she slouches forward, her shoulder brushing against my arm.
