The image her words conjured elicited an involuntary groan from the back of my throat, but I managed to say, “No fucking way, and we’re not debating this. Take off your dress.” I fingered one of the buttons at her back.
She freed one of her hands again and seemed to be trying to touch every inch of my bare skin on her way south. Her dress was already hiked up to her upper thighs because she was climbing onto my lap, rubbing herself on my leg. Basically, I was losing my mind.
“Duane, please. I need you. Please just let me—”
“I need your skin.” I released her wrist and slid my hands from her knees to her hips, hiking the material up higher, revealing a scrap of white lace. But I didn’t stop, I kept pushing the dress up, needing the weight of her bare breasts in my hands; not exactly sure what we were doing, where this was leading, and hoping I had enough sense once she was naked to rein myself in.
“Wait, Duane, wait.”
The dress bunched up and became bulky. For the first time since we entered the car, her hands moved away from my body voluntarily as she tried to withdraw them from her sleeves. I attempted to take advantage of the moment by unclasping her bra, but underneath the sweater material of her dress was a slip of some sort, and it was tight around her ribs and chest, restricting both our movements.
Not helping matters, she’d tried taking an arm out of her sleeve and her elbow was now caught between her body and the dress, immobilizing the hand. Her other arm was up and at an awkward angle, hitting the roof of the car.
I tried pushing the dress higher, but that just complicated matters, bunching it beneath her ribs.
I looked at her, and her face was red. I could tell by the set of her jaw she was frustrated. Jess was basically trapped in the material, straddling my hips, and flailing her torso from side to side as she tried to get free.
Then she started to cuss. She looked like an enraged kitten.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
I gripped her hips, brought my forehead to her stomach just under the bunched fabric, and laughed against her bare skin.
“Duane Winston, are you laughing at me?” she growled, huffing a bit as she struggled with the dress.
“Yes. I am laughing at you.” I couldn’t stop laughing. I felt tears gather in my eyes. She looked so ridiculous and adorable, trapped in her dress. And I was relieved. Because the moment of brevity had a sobering effect.
I heard her laugh a bit too, but it sounded irritated. “Well, if you could trouble yourself to stop laughing long enough, maybe you could help me out of this straightjacket. I’d really appreciate it.”
I leaned back against the bench and studied her. “What can I do?”
“First of all, wipe that grin off your face.”
I tried, I did. But instead I laughed again.
“Oh good Lord!” She paired her exclamation with an eye roll.
“Fine.” I held my hands up, showing my surrender. “Fine. There are buttons?”
“Yes, but, I don’t think we’ll be able to unfasten them with me in this position. Can you pull the dress back down?”
I nodded, concentrating on helping her untangle herself even as I mourned the loss of her skin. I pulled the slip down first, then the bulkier sweater fabric next. Her elbow was still caught, so I reached around her and tried to unbutton a few inches at the center of her back. She held my shoulder for balance with her free hand as I worked.
Pretty soon I realized I was going to need to see the buttons. They were round and small and slippery, and I couldn’t get a good grip.
“Jess, you’re going to need to get off my lap and turn around. I can’t work these through the loops like this.”
She huffed, released a long, frustrated growl and shouted, “This is unbelievable!”
I pressed my lips together. I wasn’t going to laugh again, though I sorely wanted to. She was so angry and the cramped space of the car meant every time she twisted the elbow caught inside her dress nearly knocked me in the nose, forehead, or chin.
I had to help her off my lap and felt her eyes on me as I set her bottom on the seat to my side.
“I can’t believe you’re laughing. You’re still laughing.”
“I’m not,” I lied.
“You are!”
“It’s just,” I turned her around so I could see the row of buttons running down her back; I swear there were a hundred of them. “Why would you wear this? Who helped you button up?”
“No one. I used a mirror.”
“You must be crazy flexible.”
“I am.”
I stopped laughing.
“Hush, let me concentrate.”
I reached for the buttons again, but now she was laughing. And when she laughed she shook. But her laugh was also pure magic. I let my forehead fall to her shoulder, my hands dropping to her waist, and just listened to the sound while I breathed her in.
My earlier conviction surfaced again: our first time wasn’t going to be in a car. No. I wanted to be with her, make her laugh, make her crazy, take my time, take her time. Even if she didn’t care about the where and how, I did.