“I’ll get into something more comfortable, then,” she says, pushing the dress the rest of the way down her body, exposing the garters and thigh-highs she’s wearing. She steps in front of me, just in her lingerie and heels, and takes a glass of champagne from my hand. My eyes wander over every inch of her skin, taking in the way her stomach curves and the dip where her thighs and hips meet. “You do that,” I manage to say before she turns on her heel and struts to the bathroom. I don’t know where the confidence suddenly came from, but I wouldn’t mind a little more of it.
