This is a gorgeous room. So white and tranquil and glamorous, like something from a thirties movie set. I half expect Fred Astaire to come dancing out of the en suite bathroom, dressed in white tie and tails, and almost floating on air, ready to charm me.
Instead itâs Simon who emerges; not quite Fred, but a nifty mover all the same and, to my eyes, infinitely more handsome. Heâs not in evening dress, but he is wearing an achingly good suit. Itâs charcoal-gray, with just a faint sheen of midnight, and it makes his eyes gleam and flash like a pair of polished sapphires and the rest of him just look like a sex god.
I feel as if Iâm in a movie too. At a pivotal moment, with a thousand eyes watching me. Theyâre waiting for the drama to begin, and the men are admiring my body. Maybe the women are, too? Perched on the upholstered dressing table stool, I add a little more tint to my lips, leaning forward toward the mirror and self-consciously graceful, both for the unseen audience and Simonâs intent gaze.
Those eyes of his narrow, noting my studied elegance. Or it could be the fact that Iâm not actually ready yet, and thus presenting him with exactly the excuse he needsâif he ever needs oneâto initiate one of our special games. The ones we learned from a certain book of naughty Victorian photographs, the Blue Book we once discovered while on holiday.
Simon doesnât castigate me though. He doesnât need to. He just gives me the look that makes me melt and fall to pieces in helpless lust.
Everything flutters inside me. Everythingâs agitated and needy. Iâm chaos incarnate in this calm sea of white. The setting is cool and exquisite, but Iâm all hot and excited. My cheeks flush with a pink to rival my lip tint, and Iâm glad I didnât apply my blusher now. My throat and chest color up too, and that dizzy, revealing pink, combined with the dramatic chic of my black lace underwear, makes me into a creature of contrasts, stark and vivid in our snowy, creamy suite.
âI...Iâm sorry, I was daydreaming.â I glance toward my black velvet evening gown, hanging against the front of the fitted wardrobe. Itâs a slender, formfitting tube, a style Iâd never even have contemplated at one time, but seeing as how Iâve been a star once already today, and Iâd been dieting to get into quite a different dress, I might as well show my figure while at its most svelte. Simon flicks a look at the dress too, and quirks his sandy eyebrows in a significant gesture I know all too well. âIt wonât take me but a moment to slip my dress on...sorry,â I twitter on, too keyed up, and roused up, to think straight.
âOh, thereâs plenty of time, my love,â he drawls. Heâs affecting nonchalance, just as sophisticated Fred might have done, but I know him. Heâs as excited as I am, and I can plainly see it, even though heâs become a past master at masking his emotions. Strolling toward me, he draws out a length of narrow black satin ribbon from his pocket, and when he reaches where I sit, at the white painted dressing table, he slips the dark band around my throat and ties it in a soft bow at the back of my neck. I feel a finger, then another, slip between the ribbon and my skin, testing my comfort. Simonâs always thoughtful in little touches like that, even though other things he does to me are far from comfortable.
I snatch a look at myself in the mirror. My hairâs up, so the bow is an eloquent symbol around my neck, perfectly clear to those who would recognize it for what it is. My heart thuds, and desire rolls slowly in the pit of my belly, acknowledging the significance.
If all those eyes were really watching us, theyâd know this is the moment.
âBut I do think we ought to remind you of the virtues of punctuality, perhaps? Thisâs the second time youâve been late today, isnât it?â He gives a little tug on the ribbon, urging me to my feet. Heâs not rough; itâs just a minute increase of pressure, but oh so exciting. Heâs right about the lateness too, even though heâs punished me for that already, in a stolen moment in the midst of the festivities.