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Mel is struggling with the zipper of her dress when she gives up and calls in Frank for assistance. When he appears in the doorway behind her, he freezes. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. She watches him in the bathroom mirror.
“Jesus, Mel,” he rasps. It sounds pained. He stalks towards her, coming up to stand behind her, the two of them watching the others reflection. He presses his face into the juncture of her shoulder and neck, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
Her skin warms under his touch, subconsciously lifting her head to give him better access to her jaw. “Can you zip me?”
“Honestly, I’d rather not.” If it was anyone else, it would’ve sounded cocky, crude even. But this is Frank, and she is Mel, so it just sounds earnest, soft.
“We have to go. The gala starts in an hour,” Mel chides.
“I don’t think anyone will notice if we were late,” he retorts. “In fact, Robby would probably be thrilled if I didn’t go at all.” His hands start to roam over her body, over the very dress she asked him to zip.
Her dress is a weird sort of yellowy-green that attracted her to it in the first place.
She turns to face him then, finally getting a good look at him. Suddenly she understands his reaction to her. He’s a vision of masculine beauty. His hair is tousled, in a way that was meticulously arranged, rather than natural. The image of him messing with his hair in the mirror makes her smile. His suit is standard black with a white button up, but it’s tailored impeccably, showing off his broad shoulders and long legs. She feels hot all over.
His hands are trailing up and down her sides, featherlight touches on the hills and valleys of her ribcage and waist and hips. A shiver runs down her spine.
“You look beautiful,” he tells her, voice gentle and sweet, despite his hands, growing ever more insistent. “And also really fucking hot.”
His touch moves from her waist up her arms, over her shoulders to her neck, holding it and tipping her chin up to kiss her. It’s a dirty, wet thing, with his tongue in her mouth and pathetic moans from the both of them, and it breaks all of her resolve. They can be late.
“You make a very convincing argument,” she says breathlessly, before crashing their mouths back together.
“God, Mel,” he moans on her lips. “Please keep the dress on.”
“Please keep the suit on,” she retorts.
They make it to the PTMC gala an hour late, flushed and somewhat satiated. No one notices their tardiness, or their absence halfway through coinciding with a locked bathroom door, or when they leave early without saying goodbye to anyone.