Page 31 of Sinful Escape

With the dress draped across her arm, she smiled and said, “Follow me, s'il vous plaît.”

I followed her flawless ass to the fitting room, half expecting the belt strangling her waist to snap her in two. After hanging the dress on a brass hook, she held the curtain aside for me to enter.

“Merci.” I stepped into the cubicle, and she tugged the drape closed.

The mirror was mean. My hair, as usual, formed a wild red halo around my head and my freckles looked like I’d lost a battle with a hyperactive child wielding a brown magic marker. They were funny like that. Some days my freckles were barely visible; other days, they were as noticeable as a naked hunk on a tightrope.

Snapping my eyes away from my reflection, I reached for the dress.

The fabric was much softer than I’d anticipated, yet it was firm and slightly stretchy. Down the front of the dress was a gold zipper that traveled from the bust line to the hemline, much like a body bag. I had no idea where that brutal comparison had sprung from.

My brain was getting weirder by the minute.

After undressing, I placed my clothes on the plush French provincial chair in the corner. Gliding the zipper down, I caught the dress before it slipped off the hanger. I weaved my arms through the holes, pulled the fabric together at the front, and zipped it up.

Bloody hell! It fit.

In fact, not only did it fit, but it also looked incredible. I shifted from side to side, admiring the miracle. The stretchy fabric contoured over my narrow hips and miraculously stretched to cover my girls perfectly. No bulging, straining, or looking like I was about to flop out at any moment. My bizarre shape had always been my problem. Apparently, tiny hips and big boobs were not something dressmakers could comprehend.

The last time I’d worn a dress was my engagement party, and fortunately, caftans had been on-trend.

“How does it look?”

I jumped at her perky voice. “Oh, ummm, it looks nice.”

“S'il vous plaît, may I see?”

I pulled the curtain aside.

She stepped back and eyed me up and down in such a way a rush of heat blazed up my neck. My freckles would’ve hit party mode.

“I told you. This dress is made for your figure.” She turned to the full-length mirror on the wall, urging me to step out of the cubicle. “See how it emphasizes your bust?”

“I’d rather hide it, to be honest.”

Her eyes bulged. “No, no, no. That will not do. These are your assets. You should show them off like they are the Hope Diamond.” She stepped forward and tugged the zipper down to reveal ample cleavage, then the crazy woman cupped my boobs, plumping them up.

I froze, not sure of the correct protocol. Maybe it was a French thing?

No woman had ever touched my boobs before. Not even my mother, despite her unhealthy obsession with them. Although she had tried on more occasions than I could count.

“Yes. You like?”

I scrunched up my nose. “I don’t know.”

“I do. This is perfect for you. You own this dress.”

“I don’t own any dresses.”

Again, her eyes bulged. “That is a crime. Every woman should have a dress. Especially a little black dress. Match it with stilettos, and men everywhere will notice you.”

I blinked at her and had to resist pointing out her misconceptions. Not only did I not own any high heels, let alone stilettos, but men did not look at me.

Well, not me, me. Just the area between my navel and my clavicles.

She twisted my shoulders, so I was square to the mirror. “This dress is perfect for you.”

She glided her hand over my hip. “It shows your divine curves.”

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