Page 37 of Milk
“Are you giving me sass, Tiff?”
I blushed and shook my head no. It was a lie, of course. Not that I’d admit it.
He opened the box, letting the fabric unfold to reveal a classic vintage style 1950s dress.
Of course, in cow print.
It looked like something a housewife would wear. Buttons around the collar, no sleeves, flared skirt. And the material was smooth and gentle to the touch.
“For me? Really?”
“Is that so surprising?” Carter teased.
It was, of course. I couldn’t really believe that a man would buy clothes for me, as if I was something pretty and worth adorning. But instead of saying anything, I just laughed.
“I thought you wanted me to eat naked,” I explained.
“As beautiful as you are naked, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you in beautiful things too. It’s a shame to cover those marvelous spots, but this will still show your arms and your sexy legs, so not a total loss.”
I hesitated. Beautiful spots? I looked for a hint of sarcasm and mockery and found none. Did he really think my vitiligo stains were beautiful? Why did I care? Why was I so quick to forgive a man who had enslaved and exploited so many women?
“I … Thank you,” I said simply, trying to hold back the avalanche of questions and feelings.
“Don’t thank me, just get up and let me put it on you.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now. I need to see if it fits.”
I doubted it would. Larger bodies were far harder to flatter than skinny ones. Even clothes made for big women would often sit wrong. Some had more gut, some had more ass, some had more boobs. I sighed, ready to face the awkwardness of deciding which adjustments I’d require.
I got up and lifted my arms, my bell jiggling as Carter guided the dress over my head. As it descended, he tucked it past my breasts, my waist, and … it fit perfectly. Too perfect in fact. Suspiciously so. I lifted my eyebrow at him.
He confessed immediately. “You caught me. I measured you while you were unconscious and had my personal tailor work on it. A dress like this is custom-made. Just like you’ve been custom-made to tempt me in every possible way.”
I looked at myself in the mirror of his room and twirled. It was incredible what a properly tailored, flattering cut could do for my silhouette. I was still larger, but the girth of my waist contrasted heavily with the toned state of my legs, and the shape of the dress even slimmed me a little. What was strange wasthat the spots did seem to flatter my vitiligo marks, too. It felt … Harmonious and deliberate.
In the reflection, I saw Carter standing beside me. We looked like a matching couple for some midwestern ad. ‘Pasture raised and cruelty-free,’ I thought with some irony.
“Carter, this is too nice.”
“You deserve it, my calf. You deserve all of it.”
“You brought this for me? You set this whole date for me? Really?”
“Yes, of course,” Carter answered, almost surprised by my confusion.
He pulled my chair from the table and gestured for me to sit again. As I obeyed, I took a deep breath of the food in front of us. He served us thin aromatic rice and pieces of chicken in a deep, spicy scented sauce.
“What is this?” I asked.
“This is Tikka Masala,” He said.
“Tikka What?”
“Right, Amish.” He paused. “This is Indian Food. It’s one of my favorites. But I haven’t had it in ages,” he explained.
“Why not? Is it hard to find?”
