He watches the strap of her dress slide down one inch at a time; eyes drawn to its downward, sideways progress, transfixed by the slow staccato stutter as each breath she takes halts, then speeds, its descent, slipping down a slender arm, a fragile sheath of skin over delicate bones, pale skin. And wonders – intellectually - how much pressure is required to break and bruise bone and skin.
She’s asking for that, he thinks, as the strap completes its descent and her hand reaches to tug it up.
Inviting his attention.
He accepts of course.
It’d be unmannerly not to.
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