Fashion fanatics

I visit Dorina for her closet—racks of silky slips and lace-trimmed bras, every hem whispering money. She bought the best again. This time the box was black tissue and pale ribbon. Inside: midnight lace so thin it would melt under a palm. She barely opened the lid before I told her to strip and put it on. Off came her dress. Pale skin first, then the narrow thong cinched around her hips, followed by a demi-cup bra that barely caged her nipples. The silk bit softly when she turned, fabric winking between her thighs like a secret. I traced the strap over her shoulder and watched the thin lace peel at the edge, offering everything while promising nothing. She arched her back, invited my hand lower, heat pulsing against cool satin. Every purchase, every expensive whim of hers, waited for this moment—both of us trembling in that clean dressing-room hush, one touch away from tearing it all apart.