The risqué black dress

The risqué black dress clung like a second skin, slick over her hips, dipping low enough in front to make her nipples stir beneath the fabric. Emily’s bare shoulders shimmered faintly with a dab of lotion, and she’d taken the time to line her eyes just a little. Not much. Just enough to feel dangerous.

As they stepped out onto the garden patio, the full scope of the party unfurled before her. String lights twisted through the cypress trees, casting golden orbs over the crowd. There were at least a hundred people already milling about, laughing in clusters, drinks in hand. Soft jazz played from somewhere behind a hedge. The air smelled like citrus blossoms and expensive perfume.

A woman in a silk gown passed by carrying three glasses of champagne at once. Emily took the one offered to her by a server and sipped. Cool bubbles burst across her tongue.

She wasn’t invisible here. That much became obvious fast.

The dress did more than hug her curves—it announced them. Jason’s hand had drifted to her lower back as they walked through the crowd, and more than once she saw eyes flick from her to him and back again.

The spouses she met were varied—some warm and chatty, others reserved. One woman, all lacquered nails and Botoxed brows, gave Emily a once-over and said, “Oh, you’re Jason’s wife,” in a tone that made it feel like a challenge.

Another man—older, graying temples, wedding band clearly visible—lingered too close while discussing wine varietals, his eyes never quite reaching hers. His gaze stuck somewhere below her collarbone.

Jason was watching. His jaw flexed once, but he didn’t pull her away. Instead, he offered her another glass of champagne, lips brushing her ear as he whispered, “You’re killing me in that dress.”

She giggled. The champagne made it easy.

A man arrived then—tall, late fifties maybe early sixties, powerfully built and dressed in an open-collar white shirt and linen slacks, tanned like someone who vacationed in places without names. His smile was a slow reveal of perfect teeth.

“Jason!” he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Glad you could make it. And this must be your wife.”

“Emily,” she offered, extending a hand.

He took it with a warmth that lingered. “Enchanté.”

Her cheeks flushed, and not from the ****.

As he drifted away into another conversation, Emily realized her hand still tingled faintly where he’d touched it. Jason raised an eyebrow. “He’s a flirt.”

“Is that allowed at company events?”

He chuckled. “At his events? At his house? Anything’s allowed.”

-0-

They danced under the lights to a slow, swaying beat. Jason’s hand slid over her hip, pulling her close. The champagne had made her pliant, giggly, eager. She pressed against him, her breath teasing the edge of his neck.

He looked down at her. “You’re trouble in that dress.”

“I’m your trouble.”

“Damn right.”

She laughed into his collar. Around them, others swayed—some keeping distance, some… not. One couple was practically joined at the hip, her hands tucked into his back pockets, his lips on her neck. Another pair lingered near a fountain, his hand caressing the underside of her bare arm, a private exchange Emily couldn’t hear but could feel.

Her body hummed.