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Since we've been together, she's been dressed in a variation of the same outfit for work, an elegant ensemble of shirts and skirt, and the occasional black dress. At night, in bed, she's either naked, in a silk robe, or in one of my T-shirts.
It's been a long time since I've seen her dressed up, and when I last did, I wasn't actually looking.
I was so blind.
The curtain rings rattle as she pushes through the hanging fabric, and my heart skips a beat.
"Up here, Clarissa," I say, pointing to a raised stoop in the middle of the dressing area, surrounded completely by mirrors. She strides over, completely comfortable in the garment.
As the saying goes, she doesn't wear the dress, it wears her.
She's molten sex and feminine elegance in motion, the hint of the length of her leg as she takes each step is breathtaking, the fabric as light as a whisper over her décolleté, hinting at the fullness of her breast. Her waist is accentuated by the most delicate pinch of the seam.
I can't help but beam with pride.
To know her. To be with her.
Venus in stone, except now she's living, breathing, perfection.
It's too bad she won't be wearing this dress.
"What do you think?" I turn to the two sales assistants.
Now they trip over their tongues.
"Oh, she looks absolutely beautiful, stunning, sir."
I stop them by holding up my hand. "No, don't tell me. Tellher."
The younger one blinks and looks down at the floor as she mumbles, "Ms. Masters, the dress looks amazing on you. Like it was made for you."
Clarissa says thank you, but she's looking at me.
I turn to the older one and say, "I need a pair of scissors, please."
The poor woman blanches but thinks twice about refusing. It's the smartest thing she's done thus far.
Less than a minute later, a pair of fabric scissors is placed in my hand. I close my fingers around it, enjoying the feel of the weight in my palm.
Clarissa watches me closely, as if she knows something's about to happen.
"Thank you for the scissors, and now, ladies, I'm going to have to respectfully ask you to leave."
"I'm sorry, sir?" the older one stammers.
"Get. Out."
"Sir?"
My eyes bore deep into their faces, making sure to burn mine into their memories of this moment.
"I said, leave. Unless you want to hang around and watch while I fuck my fiancée right here in the middle of your showroom floor. Your choice."
Their mouths fall open, spluttering, cheeks blazing red
"What are you worried about? You think Ravel is going to mind? Do you know who owns this building? Do you think he's going to tell me that he's not happy with how I treated his employees who made my fiancée feel like shit? Basically treated her like a criminal?" Anger leaches into every cell. "So, I'm going to say it one more time. Get. The. Fuck. Out." Balled up fists by my sides turn white, "Now."
They scramble, shoes slipping, sliding on the floor as they flee out of the door. And when it closes behind them, I turn to her.
