“Oh, fiddlesticks!” Only Corinne still swore like a 19th Century nun.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t reach my zipper. Brettie, could I trouble you to come in and do me up?”
I wouldn’t bet my life on it, but I swore I heard the tiniest of gaps between the last two words.
“Uh, sure, I guess…”
I stepped through the door into my own private paradise. Or maybe it was Purgatory, punishment for coveting my neighbour’s wife.
Corinne stood with her back to me, in a dress she surely must have been born in, it was so tight. She had her hands up behind her head, holding her heavenly hair aloft, exposing not just the perfect stem of her neck, but the exhilarating drop into the open back of her dress.
She was looking at me in her full-length mirror, the darkness of her irises making her eyes look like wishing wells, while her slightly parted lips were as full as her bodice.
“You’ll find what you’re looking for just down there,” she hummed to me, indicating her immaculate bottom.
“I’ve known that forever,” I said without thinking.
“I meant the zipper…”
“Did you?” Everything about the evening made me doubt her. I hovered across the floor, almost bumping into her, stopping just short of losing control. My hands shook as I clutched the tiny zipper. I tried to raise it, but the dress began to cinch up, so without thinking I placed my hand below the zip. My only thought had been to allow me to do my job…until I realised exactly where my hand was. |
