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18+ warning: smut.
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IT WAS FINALLY Saturday. Six PM, sharp. The Plaza Hotel was decked out in Christmas decor, from sparkling garlands to twinkling lights and a huge tree situated in the middle of the lobby, colorful ornaments placed among the branches. Sabrina had a team decorate the function room just as nicely. She had her own tree placed off to the side – but it was half the size of the one in the lobby – and it was adorned with ornaments made by Frank's employees. The team had gathered fake, cotton snow around the ballroom, strung bright, white lights from every crevice, and hung shiny snowflakes off the ceiling. Every table was covered in a pristine, white cloth, and an intricate centerpiece made of ice was placed in the middle, along with everyone's name cards in front of their utensils and small plates. Sabrina had even hired a five-piece band with a singer to entertain the guests.
This was a Christmas Eve picked out of a fairytale. Not only was the ballroom flawlessly decorated, but even real snow began to fall outside. Sloane might've been in good mood, if it weren't for the pit of anxiety forming in her stomach. She climbed the servant's stairwell to the roof and stood by the ledge, waiting for Peter. Flurries landed on her perfectly styled hair, and she wished the trench coat her mother made her wear had a hood. It was just barely warm enough. Her feet were already aching in her heels and her tongue darted out to wet her pink lips. If Peter didn't show up soon, this weather was going to completely ruin the makeup Sabrina put on –
A pair of feet landed on the cement beside her.
Sloane's breath caught in her throat, and she gasped. Peter was dressed head-to-toe in the Spider-Man suit, his old backpack slung over his shoulders. Holding a hand to her chest, Sloane chastised, "Don't do that. I'm already nervous enough tonight."
Peter laughed and yanked the mask off. His hair stuck up in different directions. "Sorry," he replied, before his eyes drifted down her body. Peter admired the fancy updo her mother had done hours ago, the curled pieces framing her delicate face. Her cheeks were flushed enough from the cold to not need blush, while her eyes had a thin, black wing painted on them and a hint of sparkle in the corners. Her lashes were long and black, and her straight brows were unnaturally fluffy. Peter swallowed hard, eyeing her perfectly kissable, lipstick-stained mouth, and moved her arms away from her chest to flip open her trench coat. Suddenly, his eyes looked like they were about to fall out of his skull. "Oh ... my god," he said, pulling her close by wrapping an arm around her waist. "Sloane, why didn't you warn me about this dress?"
