The Dress He Hates

The zipper sounded louder than it should have in the stillness of the bedroom.

Ziiiip.

It slid up my spine like a whisper of sin, closing around the hourglass curve he liked to hold when he fucked me from behind.

I stood in front of the mirror.

Back straight.

Chin up.

Legs parted just enough.

The dress hugged me like it knew what it was doing.

Deep charcoal grey, modest in theory — but tailored to trace every slope of my body like fingertips in fabric form. My nipples perked beneath the silk, subtle but present. The hem stopped just above mid-thigh, like a sentence cut off too soon.

I looked professional. Sharp. Composed.

But I also looked like I was about to ruin someone’s marriage.

And I loved it.

From behind, I saw his reflection before I heard him.

Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, still in his NS uniform pants and black tee.

His jaw was tight.

Eyes darker than they had been all week.

But he didn’t speak.

He hated this dress.

Not because it was too revealing.

But because it wasn’t.

It hinted. Invited. Left room for imagination — and he knew exactly what men did with that space.

I reached for my earrings slowly, giving him a full side view. The fabric stretched across my ass like it was molded. I didn’t need to look to know his eyes were locked.

“You’re not saying anything,” I said, keeping my tone light. Innocent. The kind of innocent that begged to be ruined.

Still, silence.

I turned. “Too much?”

He just stared.

God, he was wound so tightly.

I stepped toward him — heels clicking softly on the floor — and adjusted his collar with a smirk. “It’s just dinner,” I whispered, breath brushing his cheek.

He didn’t answer.

But his hand grabbed my wrist.

Firm.

Fingers digging just enough to remind me who I belonged to.

I looked up at him.

Still nothing.

Then, just as suddenly, he let go.

Turned away. Sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, face in his hands like he couldn’t trust himself to look at me.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

My panties were already damp.

This was the kind of tension I lived for.

“Don’t wait up,” I said softly, grabbing my clutch.

As I walked to the door, I felt the heat of his gaze on the back of my thighs.

Right before I opened it, my phone buzzed.

I looked down.

“Don’t let him stare too long.”

A slow smile curled at my lips.

I didn’t reply.

I wanted him to sit in it.

To stew.

To imagine the way my legs would cross beneath the table.

The way a man would look at me with a hunger he couldn’t act on — but would still feel down to his cock.

I wanted to break him.

Because I knew he’d break me later.

And I’d beg for it.