The Balls in Our Courts [F.SxO.CxT.S]

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A/N: Blaze on this....😎 Happy Easter or Passover! 

"It's beautiful." Her fingers ran over the black silk dress, decorated with pearled buttons and silver clasps. She thought back to the other dresses he had bought her, but nothing compared to this. Quite possibly, she considered, it was the most beautiful thing up until that moment she ever put on her body. Her unpainted, tennis wielding hands looked criminal touching it. Breath taken, she turned to him. The dress clung to every curve of her body, accentuating all the things he liked. "It's very, very beautiful. But I don't look well in things like these, Mr. Shelby. What is it for?"

"I'm taking you to dinner," he reminded her, walking over and rubbing the hem between his fingers. His eyes drifted over to her, his facial expression unreadable, but his tone stayed soft. Often using gifts as a way to wash over the faults and errors of his ways, Amelia suspected the dress was no different. She gave a little dainty twirl. Tommy slowly smiled, loving how the fabric complimented her. He stood, taking slow strides to her. Bashfully, her cheeks turned a bright red and she shyly looked away from any mirrors. His hand met her cheek, cradling it with admiration. His shirt was still undone as was his belt when he stepped over, smoke hanging from the corner of his lips. "C'mere," he said. Amelia didn't need to ask, he already knew; moving behind her, hands on her shoulders. She only managed to pull her zipper a quarter of the way.
"I can do it," she whispered, shoulders curling up. As a way of kindly dodging him, she shifted her body away from him, her arm struggling to reach the tab of her zipper.

He thought it amusing, really, how much she fought against him. Tommy chuckled, enjoying a few deep inhales of his cigarette. Grunting and groaning, she clearly couldn't reach. Ringlets of smoke circled them as he French exhaled, relaxing himself in her presence. His eyes casually drifted to the clock as it tick-tocked near their reservation. It was a prolific restaurant that often has waiting lists backlogged for months. "Nonsense," he said after a while, sighing. He moved forward, gripping her shoulders again. "We have a dinner reservation, and while I find your presence entertaining enough, I'd like to be on time." She conceded with a slight sigh, focusing on herself in the mirror instead. He held his cigarette between his fingers. The ashes trickled over her as his hand stayed put on her shoulder. His other hand gripped the tab while he looked down her back. The delicate curve of her spine, the pure eroticism of her skin. So untouched. Amelia shuttered, feeling his warm breath hit the back of her neck. He leaned in, his lips just hovering over the nape of her neck. So tempted, so wanting to kiss her. Innocent and pure, she nearly begged to be taken.
Her body tensed up, cheeks flaring with a flash of warmth. "Mr. Shelby." She interrupted him, watching his movements from the adjacent mirror. "I still have to fix my hair, if I may?"

He stopped, eyes meeting hers in the reflection. They shared a short connection; his face hallow and unreadable. Right, he agreed under his breath, pulling the tab up. It cinched her dress up nicely, hugging tighter around her hips. His eyes dropped, tracing around her body. "It's beautiful-you're beautiful, Miss. Clarke-"