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shoes.
    He lifted his shirt, revealing abs so hard and taut they could blow out a truck tire.  I licked my lips.  He laughed again, and pointed at me.
    I tugged apart both sides of my shirt in question.
    He nodded, and mouthed something I couldn't understand.  With a shrug, he then spoke an unmistakable, "Please."
    Or at least, I'd interpreted it as please.  Maybe he'd initially said s'il vous plait ?  He could have said anything.  No, he'd asked permission.  He'd begged for me to remove my shirt.  Kind of, sort of, maybe?  Yeah, I was going with begging.
    Turning away, more to hide my sudden blush than anything, I didn't vacillate over his request too long.  My back to him, I shrugged my shirt down to my elbows.  Remarkably, the bra stayed in place.  Attribute that little miracle to underwires and a perfect fit La Perla black lace pushup.
    Dropping my arms at my sides, the blouse glided down to my wrists.  A shake of my hands and a swing of an arm swept it onto the velvet chair beside me.  The black lace bra clung to my almost-C cups as I turned slowly toward him.  (I was closer to a B-cup, but when a girl wavers between two cups, she always rounds up.  And that is gospel.)
    He kissed his fingertips and blew the morsel to me.  The intangible kiss permeated the glass between us and scurried beneath my skin as if some kind of injected heat.  A man's silent approval of what he saw before him.  I didn't even worry about the nudge of muffintop that had blossomed thanks to the many macarons I was forced to consume every time I passed a patisserie.  Yes, forced.  If I didn't eat them, the pretty pastel treats would sit under glass all day and grow hard, crunchy, and unpalatable.  Who could live with such a horror?
    He tugged at the waistband of his jeans, then pointed to me.  Skirt off, too, eh?
    Again, I didn't think beyond what the flirtatious, wanting, giggling vixen inside me desired.  This was fun and daring, and I knew I wasn't going any farther than shirt and skirt until he gave a little on his side as well.  Besides, we were separated by two sheets of glass and fifteen feet of air space.  We stood in completely different buildings. 
    It could never be completely safe—I might run into him on the street some day and then, whoops!  But I cautioned myself from thinking that far ahead.
    The skirt dropped to the floor, puddling about my Louboutins.  I stepped out of the white pinstripes on gray rayon and kicked it aside.  Twisting, I stood before the window in my matching black lace set and beribboned high heels.  A shiver scurried from my neck down my arms and through my stomach ending at my mons where it swirled expectantly.  There's something so sexy about wearing shoes while in lingerie.  It was unusual for me, so it felt forbidden.  It was even more daring, to me, than walking around naked after a shower.
    The man touched his fingertips to his mouth and blew me an approving kiss.  I would dream about that intangible kiss tonight.  While I wore the shoes.
    I dragged the chair closer to the window and sat, knees together and feet spread.  An adjustment to one of the ribbon bows.  Perfect.  Leaning forward, I pointed to him.
    He stabbed a thumb toward his chest and perked his brows in question.
    "Yes, you."  I nodded.  "You gotta give if you want to get, Mr. Sexy." 
    That should probably be Monsieur Sexy?  What was the French word for sexy?  I think it might simply be sexy.  I'd have to look it up later.
    Splaying his hands out, he momentarily considered the request, or rather, made dramatic show of considering it, then nodded that yes, indeed, he must comply.  It was a teasing compliance.  He had a sense of humor, and that rocketed his appeal exponentially.
    He unzipped his jeans.  I'd already seen him in his skivvies, so the unveiling would be nothing new, but the slowness with which he eased the snug denim down his thighs and to his knees almost undid me.  His thigh muscles