The F-Word

Five. Six.

In fact, I can hardly breathe. I’ve revealed the swell of her breasts. The lush curve. The start of the delicate shadow between them.

“Matthew,” she says in a whisper.

“Shhh,” I say, and slowly I ease the jacket back. I can see the narrow straps that hold the dress on her shoulders. I ease the jacket back further. It slides away and falls to the floor.

I was wrong when I said she was beautiful.

She isn’t just beautiful. She’s gorgeous. She’s Goldilocks personified: Not too much. Not too little. She’s just right

I say her name. She says nothing; she just stares at me wide-eyed. I say her name again. I want to reach for her. Take her in my arms. Hell. What I want is to reach behind her, unzip the dress…

“Matthew,” she says, her voice barely a whisper, and I know I could do it, she would let me do it, she would let me strip her naked so I could kiss her, taste her, her breasts, her belly, her thighs…

So you could take advantage of her, you mean. Because that’s what you’d be doing. She knows zilch about the world, about men. That’s why you’re here, pal, or maybe you forgot that this isn’t real. You’re doing this for her. Remember?

The voice is clear and cold inside my head. The message is valid. One hundred percent valid. I take a deep breath and step back; I pin what I hope is a big smile on my face.

“There,” I say. “Perfect.”

She runs the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. Man, I wish she wouldn’t do that.

“Really?”

I grab her hand and turn her toward the mirror. “Look.”

She looks. In fact, she stares. I watch her face, trying to read what she’s thinking. Is the skirt too short? Does

the dress show too much? I wasn’t this nervous waiting to see my first bonus check back in the days when I was a hedge fund hotshot who could do no wrong.

She lifts her hand. Touches her hair. “I never wear my hair loose,” she says.

“Well, you should.”

“And the skirt…”

“Not short enough?” I ask innocently.

She looks at me in the mirror. “Very funny.”

“It’s fine.”

She looks uncertain and I think about taking her in my arms. Just for comfort, of course…

Have you noticed that I’m a bad liar?

“Okay,” I say briskly, “time to get moving. Our reservation’s for eight o’clock…What?”

This time, she’s not touching her tongue to her lip. She’s sinking her teeth into it. Very gently. I could do it even more gently.

“My shoes.”

I clear my throat. “Your shoes?”

She nods. I look down at her feet. She’s right. Those serviceable clodhoppers definitely don’t make it with her new look.

“Before you ask,” she says, “I don’t have anything with, you know, a different kind of heel.”