None at all

Emily’s fingers found the clasp behind her back—muscle memory kicking in before thought could intervene.

The music thrummed low and slow through the apartment, a sultry beat that wrapped around her hips and pulled them into motion. Her weight shifted from foot to foot, thighs brushing as her torso arched slightly, pressing her breasts against the tightening lace.

She slipped the straps down her shoulders first. Slowly. One, then the other, letting them fall down the length of her arms until they dangled at her elbows. She rolled her shoulders with the beat, loosening the band, teasing the reveal even though Eli could already see where this was going.

He hadn’t moved.

But his jaw had gone slack.

Emily caught a glimpse of him—still frozen, still locked in place—and it sent a quiet thrill through her that sparked all the way down her belly.

She turned her back to him again, hips rolling, giving him the full silhouette of her figure. The black lace clung to her in the dim light. One hand on her hip, the other to the clasp—and then, with practiced fluidity, she undid it.

The bra came free in her hand.

She didn’t toss it. Didn’t drop it. Just let it hang, dangling from her fingertips like a trophy from the past. Then, slowly, she lowered it to the floor. Her spine arched, her arms swept up over her head, her fingers curled above her, her body moving to the rhythm like it was made for it.

Like it had never forgotten.

Her breasts swayed gently with every turn, nipples stiffening in the cool air, each roll of her hips deliberate and grounded. It wasn’t pornographic. It wasn’t frantic. It was artful. Intentional. Controlled.

She spun halfway back toward him, meeting his gaze.

His face was flushed. His eyes drank her in with something between reverence and disbelief.

She smiled—soft, knowing—and turned fully to face him once more, hands sliding up her thighs, over the curve of her hips, then back toward her ribs. She cupped herself lightly, just once, as if to test whether this body was still hers.

It was.

And she was giving it to him, here, now.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked, her voice smoky, honest.

Eli shook his head.

Hard.

“No.”

Emily smiled, just a little.

“Good.”

She said it low. Confident. Almost like it tasted sweet in her mouth.

And then she started moving again.

The music rolled under her skin, an old lover returning—every shift of her hips, every twist of her shoulders synced to the rhythm like gravity itself had changed just for her. Her hands didn’t move to strip anything else right away. They glided across her skin instead, as if to savor every inch—sliding up her torso, skimming under her breasts, across her ribs, then down, teasing the line of her thong where it dipped between her hipbones.

Eli’s gaze never broke.

His breathing had gone shallow.

He looked like he was forgetting where he was—who he was—because nothing else in his life had ever looked like this.

She turned again, back arched, legs long and tight in their stockings, the garter belt straps moving slightly with each sway. She bent forward just enough to run her hands down her thighs—showing off the way the lace hugged her curves, how the suspenders framed the curve of her ass perfectly.

When she looked over her shoulder and caught his eyes again, he looked like he might stop breathing altogether.

She rose, spun slow, fluid, her body painting arcs through the air like smoke.

And then finally—finally—her fingers found the waistband of her thong.

She hooked them just inside.

Paused.

Eyes locked to his.

She dragged the lace down inch by inch, swaying her hips side to side as she went, exposing the soft curve of her hips, her mound, the subtle lines that disappeared into the straps of her garter belt, which—of course—remained untouched.

Panties over garters. Always.

When she slipped the thong down her thighs and let it fall to the floor, she stepped free without breaking rhythm, without faltering. Her legs moved like they remembered every song she’d ever danced to—every stage, every watchful eye, every tip that had landed in a bra strap she no longer wore.

Now she wore nothing at all.

Except for the stockings and the garter belt framing her like a black-laced gift box.

She stood tall.

Unashamed.

Bare.

Breathing.

Letting him see her.

All of her.

And when she finally spoke again, her voice came soft but steady.

“Is this the kind of memory you’d rather keep?”