ONE
Presley
“I can’t believe I let her talk me into this shit.”
What the hell was I thinking?
Bending down to adjust the lacy, white thigh-highs, I curse under my breath and continue muttering to myself.
I’m never doing another favor for my sister. I don’t care how many times she begs with her stupid little pout and the big, sad puppy eyes thing she does. The answer will be no. I’ll remember this moment, forget my aversion to cardio, and run as far as I possibly can in the opposite direction.
No. Nope. Hell to the no.
Never again. Absolutely not. Not after this.
White. So much fucking white it should be illegal. Not a single stitch of color to be found on any of the fabric covering my body. As if there’s much fabric to begin with. Ugh. Did she choose this to torture me? I thought she loved me.
I feel like a good girl trying to be bad. It screams virginal, innocent. Like a shy, blushing bride on her wedding night.
I’m none of those things.
That chapter in my story was written years ago. Or perhaps I should call it a scene. A deleted scene at that. Removed completely because it was underwhelming, highly forgettable and unnecessary to the story.
Cupping my breasts, I give the girls a little lift and jiggle, making sure they’re where they need to be. If I’m lucky, they’ll stay put the entire time I’m in front of the camera. The last thing I need during this whole thing is a nip slip. Too bad the coverage of this bra—or lack thereof—leaves no guarantee.
“What’s taking so long, Presley? Hurry the hell up!”
Her impatience paired with the obnoxious pounding on the door makes me want to wrap my fingers around her throat and squeeze. I’ll release her as soon as she remembers that I’m doing this only because she asked it of me, not at all because it’s something I want to do.
I could easily list a hundred ways I’d rather spend my time today. A hundred more that would be less painful and traumatizing. A root canal. Stubbing my little toe. Getting my clit pierced. Just off the top of my head.
I’m about to pose in lingerie, in front of a woman I barely know while she poses me like a doll and takes pictures of me. Pictures I don’t even want.
All because Camille wants to give Ryan a very private and personal anniversary gift. She’s grown enough to strip down and bare herself in front of a camera for the man she loves, but apparently not grown enough to do it without me holding her hand. Not literally, of course. But that’s beside the point. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her, so I’ll go out there when I’m good and ready. Not a minute before.
Camille will just have to wait.
It took weeks for her to talk me into this.
A few minutes is all I need to talk myself out of it.
Cursing under my breath again, I sigh deeply and reach for the doorknob.
A tremble works its way through my body as I slip through the door. It’s a struggle to keep moving forward when all I want to do is slam the door shut, put my clothes back on, and hightail it out of here to the nearest bar.
“Damn, Presley!” Camille’s eyes trace the length of my body, making me feel more naked than I actually am, which I didn’t think was possible. “It should be like looking in a mirror, but...wow! You look so much better in lingerie than I do. Why the hell do you hide that bangin’ body?”
Ducking my head, I let my hair fall over my face to hide the blush I feel creeping up my neck. It’s a question I refuse to answer, so I don’t.
I’ve never been good with compliments or comments about my body.
Everyone says I’m beautiful, but I have a difficult time accepting it.
In theory, I should believe it.
I have no reason not to, and it’s not that I don’t. Especially when I can look at my sisters and see that they’re both gorgeous. I don’t look so different from them. We’re identical in almost every way. Our faces are the same. Our eye color a perfect match. We’re even the same height. Our bodies are where the differences lie. We all have curves, but mine are a little...more. My tits are bigger, thighs thicker, ass rounder.
I’m told it’s a good thing.
They say men love thick girls with curves in all the right places.
Maybe it’s true.
But I wouldn’t know.
Experience has taught me that the only thing men want from a thick girl is a good fuck.
At least...that’s all they’ve wanted from me.
They’re interested until they get off and then they’re gone.
Maybe my looks aren’t the problem at all. I’ve never thought to ask, and I doubt they’d have been honest even if I had. There must be something wrong with me. Something lacking. Something that prevents a man from staying, from wanting to keep me.
What is it my sisters have that I don’t?
“Presley Estelle Sterling! Don’t hide.” Camille’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I flinch. “I know you’re not used to showing this much skin, or any skin really, but you look incredible! Have you seen yourself? You’re fuckin’ fire!”
“Can we just go get this over with?” I ask, running my fingers through my hair and deliberately dodging her question.
“Seriously? I don’t understand you at all,” she huffs, grabbing my arm, pulling me toward the full-length mirror. Her attention moves to where she’s holding me, and I suck in a breath. Camille fingers the lace covering my forearms and laughs. “I can’t believe you actually found fingerless gloves to match the lingerie perfectly. Only you could make that look work, I swear. You’re never without those things.”
When she looks away, I release the breath I’ve been holding. She continues rambling as she drags me across the room, but I can’t focus on what she’s saying. She may be oblivious to the anxiety-ridden tension in my body, but it’s all I’m aware of at the moment. By the time she positions me in front of the mirror and releases my arm, I’m counting in my head, reminding myself to breathe.
There’s no need to worry.
She didn’t see anything.
She felt nothing.
“Look, Presley.”
Unable to ignore the blatant demand, I force my eyes to take in my reflection.
“Oh!” I gasp, covering my mouth with my fingertips.
My eyes flit to Camille’s reflection. She’s grinning like a madwoman.
“Told you so!” She singsongs. “Now I bet you’re glad...shit!” She pulls her phone from the pocket of the robe she’s wearing. “It’s Ryan. I’ll be right back.”
The second she’s out the door, I pull at the lace covering my arms to make sure it hasn’t slipped. Knowing my secret is still safe, my body finally relaxes, and I truly take in the sight before me.
Camille wasn’t wrong.
I look...well...fucking hot.
Apparently, the virginal bride thing is a good look for me. Who knew?
Certainly not me. Not that I ever really try to look sexy. I dress for comfort. Leggings, nerdy tees, and hoodies are more my style. Until now, I’ve never even owned sexy lingerie.