the girl in the silver dress

The setting sun begins to coat her as she stands on the balcony. A golden back light, surrounding without overpowering. The city background really is just that.

He takes a picture with his phone. He looks at it and shakes his head with a smile.

It’s a special kind of beauty, he thinks, that increases when it doesn’t know the camera is on her.

Where it belongs.

She steps back inside and is immediate drawn into a conversation.

He has no idea what style of dress it is. It’s silver. Grey? Ish? Sparkles? He does know that it is just the right amount of short. It’s snug in places that knock you on your ass. And she looks so hot that his brain threw up its arms and went to find someplace cooler.

He snaps another pic, as he marvels at how she can own a room while not even trying. In fact, she seems to be in her own world. Parallel to this one. It’s where she studies the details, recording them all to share later.

Maybe to keep for herself.

Or, on his favourite days, to share with him.

Her whispered stories stay with him the longest.

She’s telling a tale now. He’s always considered himself the story teller, but his just come from his mind. She throws her whole body into it.

Her eyes widen and absolutely shine.

Her excited hands supply the punctuation.

Her entire face lights up in a way that is captivating, energizing, and just ridiculously addictive.

Despite the most glorious view from behind that has ever, ever (ever ever ever ever!) existed, he automatically walks around the room so he can see her face.

If every face tells a story, hers tells a trilogy of books that spawns a billion dollar movie franchise.

He takes another photo.

It catches her mid laugh, and his breath in his throat.

He tried to explain it once to jealous and jaded ears, that every time he sees her, it is like the first time.



Complete awe.

He wrote something, years ago, about needing awe and aww in a relationship. Was it about her?

It sure as hell is now.

She spots something on the buffet table she hasn’t tried yet. A bee-line is made. It’s something Mexican that he’s never heard of, and that she’ll make him try to pronounce later for her general amusement.

Sometimes she eats like she forgets she’s in public. He loves that.

A glop of something falls out of a wrap-thing and lands on the floor in front of her.

Her face goes red. She looks around.

He takes another photo before he quickly makes his way over.

His warm hand on her cool shoulder.

Relief on her face.


It’s but one of his jobs on his Relationship LinkedIn.



World’s Best Kisser.

He faux rolls his eyes at her, as he grabs a napkin and tends to the spill.

She sips her wine and comically walks backwards away from the scene.

He watches as the room montages around her.

The party winds down, as they all invariably do.

She walks over to where he is standing, leans in and puts her head against his chest. He plants a soft kiss on the top of her head.

He offers a hand. Hers gets lost in it. They stroll off in search of an elevator.

She stops, leans against him, and kicks her shoes off. She picks them up and starts walking again.

He stays back and takes another pic of her and the long hallway.

He glances at it quickly as he catches up.

The elevator opens, and she pulls him in by the hand.

She tippytoe kisses him.

His kisses her back against the elevator wall while hitting the button with his finger without looking.

The door opens on their floor.

They make out.

The door closes.

The door opens again and they kiss their way out.

She giggles and the spell is broken in the most perfect way.

Her hair is a little messy. Her make-up is ready to call it a day. Her cheeks are a little reddened from the white wine.

And she’s never looked more beautiful.

He takes a picture.

She pretends to pretend pose.

God, that smile gets him.

He takes her hand and leads her to their room.

She dances on the spot, to a song only she can hear, as he opens the door.

She playfully pushes him inside, then dances past him.

He wonders if there is a “Never, ever fucking disturb” sign to put on the door.

She looks out the French doors at the twinkling city lights, winking because they know.

He takes a photo from behind.

She tries to reach her zipper, and before she can ask, he lends a hand.

He helps gravity put the dress on the floor.

She steps out of it, bends over to pick it up and hears the click from his phone camera.

She turns around with her pretend mad face.

He takes a pic of that too.

She poses in her two-tone matching lacy, delicious bra and underwear.

Another photo.

A different pose.

Another photo.

She laughs.

She turns and hears another click.

She knows he loves this angle.

Click. Click. Click.

She turns back and walks towards him.


She grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him down on the bed.


He gets comfy with his head on the pillow.

She looks at him. With that look.

With THAT look.

She climbs up on the bed.


She straddles him.


She smiles. She reaches back with one hand and unhooks her bra. She lets it drop, keeping her other arm across her breasts.


She smiles at him.


She moves her arm away and puts both of her hands in her hair, lifting it a little.


She pounces on him, kissing him with everything she’s got.

He tosses his phone towards the table. It slides across the surface and hits the floor.

He wraps her hair around his hand and pulls her closer and kisses her even harder.





photo credit: kaseymarcum via photopin cc

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