Page 8 of Dante

He’ s taken off his jacket, and his white shirt pulls tight across his chest. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle and veins that make my mouth go dry.

The guns I noticed earlier are missing. I don’t know where they went, and I decide not to ask.

Yet that sense of danger remains.

It’s in the way his eyes darken when they travel down my body, lingering on my breasts, my waist, my hips.

I feel naked already.

He looks at me for so long that I have to fight the urge to squirm.

“Stand over there,” he finally says, indicating a small circular riser near the window.

The platform is only a few inches high, but it feels like a stage.

I hesitate, my heartbeat like a drum under my tight bodice.

When I’m in position, I feel his eyes burning into my back, tracing every curve the dress accentuates.

“Be still,” he commands, his voice dropping to a low register that makes heat pool between my flaming thighs.

“Don’t turn to me.” He speaks like he’s savoring what’s about to happen, making my nipples harden in anticipation.

As he moves behind me, I feel something cool brush against my bare shoulder.

I shiver as I hear a soft snip. And another.

My breath catches in my throat as I realize what’s happening.

I stand perfectly still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe too deeply. The anticipation is excruciating.

Each second stretching out as I wait for the next touch, the next snip.

I can feel the heat of his body behind me, so close but not touching.

It makes my skin tingle with awareness.

When his fingers graze the nape of my neck, I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

The air between us feels charged, electric.

I’m aware of every inch of my skin beneath this dress that’s about to fall away.

I glance toward the mirror just as the first decorative rose holding the flounces, and therefore my dress, gives way.

My eyes widen at the reflection in the mirror.

The silver scissors in his hand catch the light as he slices through another fastening, cutting my dress away.

Not tearing it in a frenzy. Not fumbling with the ties. But deliberately severing each connection that holds the fabric to my body.

With each precise snip, I feel more exposed, more vulnerable.

More his.

Layers fall away until I’m left in nothing but garters and delicate silk undies.

My face warms as he turns me to face him, and for nearly the first time since the reception, he touches me.