You guide the delicate lace away from you, shimmying the tiny garment down over your legs, before carefully stepping out of each loop, with perfect balance and poise.
Then standing straight, smoothing down your tight dress, slowly turning, finding his bewildered eyes, his mouth hung partly open in awe, before placing the lace string, like a gift, into his hand.
His eyes are bright with firelight, his lips and throat already parched, his desire no doubt pouring forth, unrestrained with carnal, animal instinct, his every pore aching with the natural want of you.
He’s all agog, stunned, dumbstruck, as he closely considers the delicate details of your discarded black string, noticing how it carries an exquisite jewel pendant, an intimate gemstone set so daintily and seductively to hang from the intricate lattice of lace, a work of art from Lola Luna.
With a coquettish smile you watch his cheeks rouge with the faint flush of warm blood, for how his primal male mind betrays all notions of his strictly censored upbringing.
You sense the demands of social etiquette and prescribed prudence crashing inside him as his imagination shreds his defenses, releasing unbridled fantasies, re-imagining you dancing through the evening, near naked beneath that tiny dress.
“Remember these?” you ask with a cheeky knowing nod.
“How could I forget?” he replies, playfully enjoying your every tease.
“What now?” you ask, for fun.
“I’ll take those stockings, if you please” he suggests with a lucky smile.
“Oh, will you now?” you counter, quizzically raising your eyebrow throwing a cautionary look that says, don’t be so certain – Mister.
“Honestly babe” he starts, protesting his innocence: “You don’t need them, your legs always look even more amazing when they’re undressed, your skin’s natural sheen is far more appealing than any sheer stocking.”
You let his carefully chosen words sink in, but outwardly you feign to ignore him, immediately coming back with your own demanding determination: “First I’m having that shirt off you!”
Obediently and willingly he carefully places his glass on the ground, then slowly stands, rising between you and the fireplace, his image reflected in the surrounding mirrors. He slips out of his evening suit jacket and lays it to one side, then slowly begins to unbutton his fitted shirt.
His body is lean, capable and strong, you know his contours, and you know how well they fit you.
“Keep going” you command, and your eyes lock with his, as obediently and without protest he unbuckles his belt, slipping the leather strap out through the loops and unbuttoning his waistband.
You nod your approval as he slowly unzips his fly, pushing his fingers inside and looping his thumbs into his waistband, gradually easing his suit pants down over his thighs.
He senses you fight the urge to break contact with his eyes, and he smiles seeing you struggle with your own temptation.
The atmosphere between you seems to mature, changing from one of boyish and girlish fun, to something far more charged, focused and less frivolous.
Standing beside him, before the heat of the open fire, your bodies replicated and reflected from all sides, you turn through 45 degrees and begin to unfasten your dress, the side seem splitting open
You sense his eyes brightening, keen yet protective, patient yet predatory, feasting on the imagery of your slow unveiling, surrounding him.