"I'm thinking of buying that nightgown, Thomas."
Thomas looked in the catalogue, over Asha's shoulder, at the picture of the model lounging on a chaise, clad in a satin gown with a slit high enough to expose an almost indecent swath of creamy thigh. The blond woman was thin and by the look of her folded-up legs, he could tell she was tall, too. Maybe even taller than him. Asha wasn't as tall as she -- her legs weren't as long. And Asha's hair was a sandy brown. The green eyes peeked at the prospective buyer from beneath lowered, smoky lashes -- a smoldering come-hither look.
Asha's 'come hither' was more of a crooked smile, almost a smirk -- but she combined it with a raised eyebrow and sometimes a lick of her lips that shot desire straight to his gut.
Suddenly, the thought hit him. What would Asha look like in that? Her curves would be more prominent -- the curve of the underside of her breast would show a little, and he could see the cleavage as plain as day: a promising, soft cleft between caramel-colored mounds. He could slide his cheek across the chocolate (as described in the catalogue) satin that would lie across her chest, maybe brush her nipple by 'accident', smell her perfume -- or the peach body wash she used—right before he kissed her on her collarbone, his tongue slipping over the skin there and descending down between her breasts. She is always impatient when I kiss her there, he thought. The last time he'd kissed her there was in the movie theater, while they were watching "Runaway Bride." He'd ended up with his fingers in her pussy by the time Richard Gere and Julia Roberts kissed, and she'd been palming him through his jeans.
