But it was the three dresses that were not the normal daywear/travel-wear that I turned my attention to.
And I honed in on one.
It was again a sweater dress, the square neckline, bodice and upper sleeves knitted in a fabulous, paler than pale lilac. But under the br**sts and down over the hips, coming to a point in the front and back, as well as from elbow to wrist on the sleeves, was a deep purple, to-die-for supple suede. On the sides, mid-thigh to hem, and from the point of the suede that stopped at my heels at the back, flowing in a short but elegant train, was more of the lilac sweater material.
It was kind of rock ‘n’ roll meets Lunwyn, edgy but elegant.
I loved it.
Sucking back some wine, I used the water to “refresh.” Then I did my makeup for evening, deeper and smokier.
After that, I put on the dress.
It fit like a glove but you couldn’t see that the cle**age was as low as it was when it wasn’t on. And the way the knit and suede clung to my figure, the way it was cut, the design—it highlighted everything a woman wanted to highlight, br**sts, ass, collarbone, even legs.
“Holy cow,” I breathed, turning this way and that to check out every inch in the free standing full-length mirror.
Yes, I loved that dress.
But I didn’t have three years to admire myself in it. I needed to be ready by the time Apollo returned.
So I moved on to my hair.
In Fleuridia, when I had ladies maids, they often did my hair in soft, but intricate updos that really rocked.
I didn’t have that talent with hair, alas. But fiddling with it using my small kit of hairbobs that I’d bought in Benies and had been supplemented by the stuff Apollo gave me in Lunwyn, I pulled it loosely away from my face and fastened it in a (not so bad, if I did say so myself), messy, sexy bun at the side of my neck behind my ear.
With this, I slid on a pair of smoke-gray suede boots.
I was hurrying through last minute preparations, spritzing with perfume, shoving hairpins with purple stones in my hair, at the same time inserting silver chandelier earrings with purple beads in my earlobes when a knock came at the door.
My heart flew to my throat, my eyes to the mirror and the doorknob turned.
Crap, I was going to throw up.
I turned to the door when it opened and Apollo entered.
No. I wasn’t going to throw up.
I was going to have that spontaneous orgasm I’d been fearing all afternoon.
This was because he had on a green shirt that was deeper than forest green. I didn’t know what that color was. I just knew it looked really, really good on him. The collar came up high on his neck but he didn’t have a neck cloth liked I’d seen on men in the Vale. It was open there exposing the strong column of his throat—something of the many, many things that made up all that was Apollo that I especially liked.
With this, he was wearing a black jacket with black leather swatches at the shoulders and tight black trousers tucked into tall, black boots.
His hair, which was almost always disheveled, was now swept away from his face, but the ends curled around his neck and ears in a way that made your hands itch to touch them.
In other words, he looked hot.
“You’ll meet me downstairs,” he commanded, his voice terse and my gaze shot from those curls around his ears to his (for some reason) stormy eyes.
“Wh-what?” I stammered.
“If you wish to eat, you’ll meet me downstairs.”
Confused, I asked, “Why?”
“Because if I walk one more step into this room, we will not be leaving it.”
Every inch of my skin started tingling like I’d just sipped some adela tea.
Oh boy.
I was taking it he liked my dress too.
“Right. I’ll meet you downstairs,” I whispered.
His eyes slid down my body, and I swear it felt like his hands did it. So I was trembling by the time he dipped his head to me in a way that was gallant, which was a way I liked a whole lot, then he moved out the door.
I stared at it again then turned back to look at myself in the mirror.
Yes. Definitely yes.
I loved this dress.
Smiling, I walked to my new cloak, threw it over my shoulders and headed to the door.
* * * * *
If Vasterhague was cosmopolitan but rustic (which it was), The Boar was just plain old cosmopolitan.
Actually, it was cosmopolitan elegance.
No kidding, it could be picked up inch for inch and transported to Benies, it was that classy. In fact, if women wore ball gowns, it would not be lost on the décor.
Luckily, they didn’t. They wore much what I wore.
But mine was the best.
The chandelier-sporting, white-tablecloth, silver, china, crystal-laden-table-filled, peach-walls-with-crown-molding interior of The Boar was so amazing that it even managed to capture my attention.
Attention that was diverted to other things seeing as it wasn’t exactly close to our lodge and we’d had to ride there on Apollo’s horse.
And to ride there on Apollo’s horse meant him lifting me up on it to sit sidesaddle and him mounting behind me, his arm then snaking around my waist, pulling me deep, holding me close to his body, my behind snug in his crotch.
Sitting with him that way felt nice.
Scary nice.
Which felt scary good.
God.
Further making this somewhat short journey epic was him doing it the entire time with his lips at my ear, pointing out different shops or cafés I might later peruse should “we” find ourselves in Vasterhague with time to enjoy it.
His deep voice sounding intimately in my ear, the smell of him in my nostrils (he wore cologne that night; it was subtle but it had hints of cedar and musk, and mingled with his natural smell that was all man, it did a number on me), his arm tight around my belly, by the time we made it to the restaurant (what I guessed was around ten blocks) at his horse’s slow canter, I was in a state.
Luckily, the restaurant took my mind off that state and I was able to behave with decorum while having my cape taken away, being led to the table where Apollo pulled out my chair, being seated and handed a menu as Apollo ordered, “Bring us a bottle of Belle St. Michel and ask our waiter to give Lady Madeleine time with the menu.”
The maître d’ bowed and moved away.
I didn’t look at the menu.
I looked at him.
“What’s Belle St. Michel?” I asked.
His eyes went from his menu to me. “Do you have white wine with bubbles in your world?”
“Champagne?”
“Indeed.” He nodded. “Belle St. Michel is champagne from a region in Fleuridia.”