“Afraid I might be right?” she taunts.
I roll my eyes. Please. The only thing I’m afraid of is wasting time.
But I stand there, letting my hair fall down my back again, and watch her. I’m not sure why, but I kick off my heel and set the ball of my foot on her knee.
Prove it, then.
She stops. Tipping her head back, she looks up at me, her honey-brown eyes unblinking.
“I can’t bend over in this dress,” I tell her.
Fisting the skirt in my hands, I start to pull it up, past my knees and up my thighs to where the garter secures the stockings.
She holds my gaze for another moment, and then she reaches up, unfastening the clips.
Her fingertips brush the skin on the inside of my leg, and my flesh pebbles, chills breaking out everywhere. I suck in a breath, and she darts her eyes up to mine, as still as me.
Don’t stop.
I lock my jaw, and she stares at me, the heat spreading across my cheeks.
“I don’t have all day,” I chide, trying to hide my reaction.
Her chest rises and falls slowly, and then she peels the stocking down my leg and off my foot, followed by the other one, both of my shoes lying strewn on the floor with the nylons.
Walking to a nearby shelf, she scans the heels and grabs a pair, pointing to the chair near the mirror.
Indulging this, I step off the riser and have a seat as she plops down on the floor and searches for my right foot under the dress.
I hike up the skirt again as she slips the heel on, almost amused that she refuses to look. I know she wants to. My legs are just as nice as hers. The only difference is she likes to look at ones that don’t just belong to her.
It’s amazing she’s endured me as captain of the lacrosse team this year, especially when she’s probably the better player, and I haven’t made anything easy on her.
But that’s how it is. Effort, focus, hard work…they mean very little when you’re lucky like me. Saints don’t mix with swamp trash.
I gaze at her as she straps the heels on me, the tiny mole on her face, between her ear and the hollow of her cheek, bringing out the gold in her skin. I’d never noticed that before.
She puts my foot back down, and I draw in a breath, standing up and heading back to the riser again. The dress rubs against the sensitive skin of my legs, now bare, and it’s as if every inch of my body is alive and aware of itself.
Almost like I’m naked in my bed, only feeling the sheets.
I grow warm.
Holding up my skirt, I look in the mirror, the gold heels with the thin, jeweled straps making my skin glow, and I fight not to smile, because they feel and look worlds better than the other shoes.
However…
“They don’t go with the dress,” I tell her. “But I’m hardly surprised you’re so bad at this, given the shit you wear.”
I reach around my back, trying to untie the corset as she stands there with her hands on her hips.
“You’re right,” she says. “You need a new dress now.”
I almost snort. Well, we agree on that.
Unable to reach the laces because the corset is too tight for me to move, I twist around, planting my hands on my hips.
“Unlace it.”
She steps up, pulling the bow and loosening the corset, so I can push it down and off my body.
“Tell Lavinia to call me when the alterations are done,” I instruct, “and tell her to take it down a size.”
“It fits you perfectly.”
“To a four, please,” I snip as I pick the dress up off the floor. “And remove this flower.” I grab the one at the center of the bodice. “Are we repurposing wedding dresses from 1982 or something?”
But she’s not paying attention. She stands back and stares at me, and when she turns and checks my reflection in the mirror, I follow her gaze.
The simple hoop skirt wraps around me, thin and absent of bows and ruffles and lace, while the strapless white bustier corset hugs my breasts almost too tightly, and covers my stomach, leaving an inch of skin between that and my skirt.
If it weren’t obvious that they were undergarments, they might be kind of hot.
Lifting up my hoop skirt again, I check out the bare legs and shoes, Liv’s smile looking like the one I was feeling.
I could live with something like this, I guess.
“I could make it for you,” she says. “But better.”
She moves in, placing a hand on my tummy, and I ignore the skip in my heart.
“Maybe a little see-through here with some embroidery,” she explains, “piece them together, and some layering to give it dimension. Tighten up the bodice with some light and subtle gold accents to complement the shoes…”
I envision it in my head as we look at me in the mirror.
For some reason, I have no doubt she’ll pull it off if I let her, and I’d even love it.
If I let her.
She turns her eyes on me again, standing in front of me and looking up and down my garments.
“We can keep it this same shade of white.” She gestures to the gown in my arm. “It’s a perfect color, really.”
She meets my eyes, looking at me dead-on.
“You won’t even see the cum stain when he drunk-ejacs all over you in the backseat of the car after the ball,” she says.
The ever-present knot in my stomach pulls tighter, and I hold her gaze, unfaltering. Excuse me?
“Because ladies in your world don’t talk about those things.” A smile curls the corner of her mouth as she inches in, whispering, “You just go home in tears and do things with a pulsating shower head that God didn’t intend sweet little southern girls to do.”
My blood runs ice cold, and I grit my teeth, the heat of her breath falling across my lips as I curl my fingers into fists.
“Try it tonight,” she taunts, staring at my mouth. “You might like it.”
I stop breathing, the pulse between my legs starting to throb.
She snatches the dress out of my hand, and I suck in a breath as I watch her not miss a beat as she steps backward off the riser and starts to leave. “See you at school, Clay,” she says.