“Do I have permission?” I rasp.

He runs a finger up and down my sternum, plucking at the center of my bra. I forget to breathe. He shakes his head slowly. “No.” His voice is distant. He drags his finger down farther and releases another button. So nimble. “Not”—another button undone—“yet.”

He drops to his knees. I blink in surprise, and his eyes meet mine. His pupils are so dilated, I can’t tell where they end and his irises begin. Returning to the task at hand, he undoes the fasteners below my rib cage. He parts the material, kissing the skin between my bra and the top of the garter belt as his fingers continue their downward path. I dig my nails into my palms.

My buttons undone, his hands smooth down the sides of my skirt. He passes the short hemline, moving to my unsteady knees before reaching to my hamstrings, then up again. Cool hands meet the bare skin above my stockings, then cup my backside. He glances over the sensitive area between the back of my thigh and the bottom of my ass, and I have to rest against the window for balance.

Darcy traces along the elastic bordering the legs of my undies, halting at the straps of my garter belt. “Are you still wearing what you had on at the show?” His voice is rough. I grin.

Darcy groans, wincing as though pained, and presses his forehead low against my abdomen. He releases his hold and stands, moving his hand under the fabric at my shoulder, guiding it back and away from my body to reveal the cup of my bra. The rhinestone pastie glitters. “Oh, Bennet,” he breathes.

I watch him study me. It isn’t the bleary ogling of a guy freely enjoying eye candy or a lecherous glance at forbidden fruit. He saw me in this—less than this—just over an hour ago, yet his gaze is nothing short of reverent. It’s as though I’m the lucky one to be looked at like this, rather than his being lucky for getting to view.

He blinks, eyes darting to the other side of my dress, as though he’s just realized that breasts come in pairs. He pushes the dress aside and off my shoulder. I pull my arms free of the long sleeves, leaning away from the glass to let the dress fall to my waist. Darcy’s hands glide down my sides, trailing along the elastic at the top of my garter belt, then push the dress down to fall from me completely.

Now I am dressed exactly as I was at the show. But I’m not performing a role, not riffling through preplanned responses. It’s just me, being undressed by a man I want desperately. It’s not unlike the high I get from being on the stage, but there’s more to it. It’s intimate. It’s real.