‘Who put this on you?’ he murmurs. ‘Evan,’ I say with difficulty, because his movements have the satin lining of the cups rubbing just so over my aching nipples. ‘And who’s Evan?’ He tugs the length of ribbon so swiftly from one of the holes that its rasp is audible. ‘My pattern cutter. He made this for me.’ ‘I bet he fucking did.’ ‘He’s married. To a man.’
