"Perhaps if you succeed in your plan, we could arrange something." A pause. "Me and her. We don't need you."
I laugh. "I’ll tell her you said that."
"I did something, by the way. I told you I was watching you. Well, I have some men keeping an eye on Terra's friends, Emily and Tom. Her tour guide's security is quite good, but an extra layer of protection seems prudent. So far, no sign of Cabal pursuit."
"Appreciate it."
"Just deliver Jarrod fucking Carmichael to me."
"I'll be in touch."
I let myself back into Terra's apartment, announcing myself before I have the door open all the way. "It's me."
"Wait!" She calls. "Just…just hold on."
"Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, I’m just putting the finishing touches on it. I want it to be a surprise."
"Well, Jean-Paul's place is in Darien, Connecticut, which is a good three hours from here, so we gotta get moving soon."
"I just need like twenty minutes."
"I'll be on the stoop, then."
Half an hour later, I heard her door crack open. "Come in and get changed."
I enter, and my new tux is hanging up. I dress quickly, wishing I had nicer shoes—these are decent as far as dress shoes go, and very comfortable, but they don’t quite match the elevated fashion of the tux. Oh well.
I'm finishing the bowtie when I hear her bedroom door open.
"Okay, so…" her voice is nervous. "You said this is all about appearances. Making a splash. So, I…I went pretty bold. I hope you like it. Because there's no time for alterations, now."
I turn around.
All the blood drains out of my face, my hands, my brain…all of it heads south. My mouth goes dry.
"Jesus fuck, Terra."
"Is…is it okay? I know it's a little slutty, but you did say a lot of cleavage so—"
I cut her off with a kiss. "Stop talking."
"We have to go." She captures my hands. "We can't. It's held in place with tape, literally. So—so as much as I want to let you show me how hot you think it is, you're gonna have to wait."
"Fuck."
"Later, baby. I promise. Besides, I think we've had more sex in the last thirty-six or however many hours than I've had in the last four months combined."
I step back, speechless.
It's a dress worthy of the red carpet for the Academy Awards.
How do I describe it? Words fail.
The neckline? There isn't one. It plunges down to her navel in a narrowing V, with just enough material to cover roughly three-quarters of each breast, leaving the inner and outer curves bare. Now, I've obviously seen her breasts bare. They're gargantuan—I don’t know sizes or any of that, and I care even less. I just know I need both hands to fully enclose one. Which means the sheer weight of them causes them to hang. Quite beautifully, in my opinion. Thus, bras. They hold them up. Separate them. Support them. I understand this. What I don't understand is how she's keeping her breasts supported underneath the three or four inches of fabric, when it's obvious she’s not wearing a bra.
Some sort of tit witch magic, probably. I don't know. All I know is, it's an incredible effect. They sit high and proud, huge and round and gobsmackingly perfect.
