Anya's fingers were laced through Dante's as they walked through the mall, her hand swinging between them with the kind of carefree rhythm that made strangers glance twice—not at their joined hands, but at the way she glowed, at the transparent fabric of her crop top that left nothing to the imagination, at the way her nipples pressed against the thin material with every step.
"This is so fun," she said, beaming up at him. "I love shopping with you. You have such good taste."
Dante didn't reply. His thumb traced a slow circle across her knuckles, and she felt the warmth of his hand, the size of it, the way it completely swallowed hers. She squeezed back, happy.
He stopped in front of a boutique with black glass windows and a single gold sign: La Perla.
"Ooh," Anya breathed, pressing her face to the glass. "This place looks fancy."
"It is." His voice was low, unhurried. He pushed the door open, and a bell chimed somewhere inside. "Come."
She followed, still holding his hand, her eyes wide at the racks of silk and lace, the soft lighting, the way everything seemed to whisper luxury. She was wearing a short floral dress today—well, she had been. Now she was in the transparent top and micro skirt he'd picked out for her this morning, and she felt pretty. Beautiful, even. He always knew how to make her feel beautiful.
A saleswoman appeared, her smile professional and tight. "May I help you?"
Dante didn't look at her. His eyes were on Anya. "She'll need the dressing room. Bring everything in the store in her size."
The saleswoman's smile flickered. "Everything?"
"Everything."
Anya giggled, tugging his hand. "You're so silly. I don't need everything."
He looked down at her then, and something in his grey eyes softened. "You want to try them on, don't you?"
"Well, yeah, but—"
"Then you try them on." He released her hand and placed his palm against the small of her back, guiding her toward the fitting rooms. "I'll wait."
She beamed up at him, her heart fluttering. He was so thoughtful. He really cared about her interests.
The dressing room was curtained in velvet, and the saleswoman brought armful after armful of lingerie: bras she didn't need, thongs in every color, bodysuits, garter belts, lace teddies, silk robes. Anya tried them all, stepping out to model each one for Dante, who sat in a plush chair just outside the curtain, his legs crossed, his eyes never leaving her.
"What about this one?" she asked, twirling in a midnight blue lace bodysuit that dipped low between her breasts. She didn't wear a bra—she never wore a bra—and the lace did nothing to hide her nipples, which were already peaked from the air conditioning.
Dante's jaw tightened. "Next."
She didn't notice the tension in his voice. She just laughed and ducked back behind the curtain, pulling on another set: a white lace thong and a matching cropped camisole that barely covered her ribs. When she emerged, she did a little spin, her long black hair fanning out behind her. "This one's so cute!"
He didn't answer. His hands were gripping the arms of the chair, knuckles white.
"Dante? You okay?"
He blinked, and the tension left his body. "Fine. Keep going."
She shrugged and went back inside, trying on more and more: a red satin babydoll, a black mesh bodysuit, a pale pink teddy with a thong back. Each time she came out, she felt more confident, more free. He was watching her. He always watched her. It made her feel seen.
"I think I like this one best," she said, stepping out in a transparent mesh top that left her breasts completely visible—the fabric was so sheer it might as well not have been there. She wore a micro skirt that barely covered her ass, and beneath it, a tiny black G-string that rode high on her hips.
Dante rose from the chair. He walked toward her slowly, his footsteps silent on the marble floor. He stopped inches away, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"You'll wear this one," he said. His voice was low, a command wrapped in silk.
"Yeah?" She looked down at herself. "I do feel really pretty in it."
"You are." He reached out and touched the edge of the skirt, his fingertip brushing her hip. "We'll take it."
The saleswoman appeared, her face carefully neutral. "Will that be all, sir?"
"Everything she tried on. In her size. Delivered to the apartment." He pulled out the black card—her card, the one he'd given her, the one she used for everything—and handed it over. "And she'll wear this out."
The saleswoman's eyes widened slightly as she took the card. "Of course, sir. Right away."
Anya bounced on her heels, clapping her hands. "You're the best friend ever, you know that?" She threw her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his, the thin fabric of her top doing nothing to separate her skin from his suit. "Thank you thank you thank you!"
His hands found her ass immediately—not hesitating, not asking. They gripped the globes of her cheeks through the micro skirt, fingers digging into the soft flesh, spreading her apart. She felt his thumbs press into the cleft of her ass, and she squeaked a little.
"Dante! People are watching."
"Let them." His voice was rough. He squeezed harder, his fingers working the fabric of the G-string to the side, exposing her to the cool air of the boutique. She felt his thumbs hook into her asshole, pulling it open, spreading her wide.
She giggled, wiggling in his grip. "You're so silly. What are you doing?"
He didn't answer. He just held her there, her ass cheeks spread, her most private place on display, while the saleswoman rang up the purchase. Anya didn't try to pull away. This was Dante. Her best friend. He showed his affection this way—through touch, through attention. It felt good. It felt like being wanted.
"You really like my new outfit, huh?" she asked, her voice bright.
"I like everything about it." His thumbs pressed deeper, stretching her asshole until she felt the gape, the cool air inside her. She shivered, but not from cold. "I like knowing you're wearing it for me."
"Well, you did pick it out," she said, grinning. "So yeah, it's for you."
His grip tightened. He squeezed her ass cheeks so hard she felt the pressure deep in her bones, and she let out a little yelp—not pain, just surprise. Then he pulled her closer, pressing her hips against his, and she felt something hard pressing against her thigh through his trousers.
"You're happy?" he asked. His voice was a murmur against her hair.
"I'm so happy." She kissed his cheek, leaving a faint lipstick mark. "You're the best friend I've ever had."
He held her for a long moment, his hands still gripping her ass, his fingers still spread inside her cheeks, her asshole still gaping against his thumbs. She didn't think anything of it. She just hugged him back, her arms around his neck, her breasts pressed flat against his chest, the transparent top doing nothing to hide the way her nipples hardened against the wool of his suit.
"Let's go home," she said. "I want to show you the rest of the stuff I tried on."
Dante pulled back slowly, withdrawing his hands. He adjusted the micro skirt, smoothing it down over the G-string, and then took her hand again, lacing his fingers through hers.
"Home," he agreed.
They walked out of the boutique hand in hand, Anya bouncing with every step, her breasts swaying freely under the transparent top, her micro skirt flirting with the air. She didn't see the way the mall security guards averted their eyes. She didn't notice how men suddenly found the floor very interesting as she passed. She didn't feel the weight of Dante's gaze on the back of her neck, possessive and hungry, a predator finally allowed to touch his prey.
She just smiled, squeezed his hand, and thought about how lucky she was to have a friend who loved her this much.
"Dante, wait." His voice stopped her mid-bounce. She turned, her transparent top catching the mall's fluorescent light, her nipples standing out like dark petals through the mesh. He had his phone in his hand, the screen dark, his thumb hovering over it.
"What is it?" She stepped closer, curious, her micro skirt riding up as she moved. "Did you get a text?"
"No." He held the phone up, angled so only she could see the screen. "I want to show you something."
He tapped the screen. A video loaded—grainy, security-camera quality, shot from above. She recognized the boutique instantly: the marble floor, the display of silk robes, the chair where he'd sat. And there she was, in the transparent top and micro skirt, her back to the camera, his hands on her ass, spreading her open. The footage showed everything. Her G-string pulled aside. The way his thumbs hooked into her. The slow, deliberate stretch of her asshole, gaping pink and bare for the lens.
Her breath caught. Not from shame—from surprise. "Is that... us?"
"Yes." His voice was low, steady, his eyes fixed on her face. "I had it pulled from their system."
She watched herself on the screen, completely still, her body offered up like a gift. She looked so vulnerable. So exposed. And yet, watching it, she felt a strange warmth bloom in her chest. He'd kept this. He'd wanted to show her.
"That's so cool," she breathed, looking up at him with wide eyes. "You can do that? Just get security footage?"
"I can do a lot of things." His thumb traced the edge of the phone. "Do you like it?"
She bit her lip, considering. "I mean, it's weird seeing myself like that. But..." She laughed, a little giddy. "It's kind of hot? Is that weird?"
"No." His gaze dropped to her lips. "It's not weird at all."
She grinned, stepping closer, her body pressing against his. "You're so good to me. You know that?" She wrapped her arms around his waist, her cheek against his chest, oblivious to the way his hands immediately found her ass again, gripping through the thin fabric of the micro skirt. "My best friend in the whole world."
He didn't answer. He just held her, his fingers digging into her flesh, pulling her tighter against him. She felt the familiar pressure of his thumbs hooking into the cleft of her ass, spreading her cheeks apart again, and she sighed contentedly. This was comfort. This was affection. This was how Dante showed he cared.
"Can we go to another store?" she asked, her voice muffled against his suit. "I saw a place a few doors down. They had this really cute babydoll set in the window."
"Anywhere you want." His hand slid from her ass to her lower back, guiding her forward. "Lead the way."
She grabbed his hand and pulled him down the corridor, her bare legs flashing under the short skirt, the transparent top doing nothing to hide the sway of her breasts. People parted around them like water around a stone—not making eye contact, not even glancing. She didn't notice. She was too busy chattering about the babydoll set, the pink one with the lace trim, how it would look so pretty with the G-string she already had.
He let her talk, his gaze fixed on the back of her head, his hand warm and heavy in hers.
The second boutique was smaller, cozier, with soft lighting and velvet upholstery. A single saleswoman stood behind a glass counter, her eyes widening as they entered. She recognized Dante, or perhaps the quality of his suit, or the way the air seemed to thin around him. She was already nodding before he spoke.
"She'll try everything in her size," he said. No greeting. No explanation.
The saleswoman bobbed her head. "Of course, sir. Right this way, miss."
Anya beamed, squeezing his hand before following the woman into the fitting area. The racks were full of delicate fabrics: lace, satin, mesh, all in shades of blush, crimson, black. She pulled piece after piece off the hangers, holding them up against her body, imagining his reaction when she walked out.
It took over an hour. She modeled each one, stepping out, twirling, watching his face. He never smiled—not really—but his eyes darkened with each new reveal, his fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. She tried on a black lace bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination. A sheer white babydoll with a cutout over the chest. A crimson bra-and-panty set with a garter belt, even though she never wore bras—she put it on anyway, just to see his expression when she came out topless, the bra hanging from her fingers, her nipples already peaked.
He didn't flinch. He just said, "That one too."
By the end, the total had climbed past eleven thousand dollars. The saleswoman's hands trembled as she rung up the items, her eyes fixed on the black card that Dante placed on the counter. Anya watched, beaming, not understanding why the woman seemed so nervous. It was just a credit card, right? Like the one she used for coffee and groceries.
"Thank you," Anya said, throwing her arms around Dante's neck, pressing her still-transparent-covered body against him. "You didn't have to buy all of that."
"I wanted to." His hands found her ass immediately, gripping the bare cheeks through the micro skirt—she'd taken off the G-string at some point, she couldn't remember when, and now there was nothing between his fingers and her skin. He squeezed, hard, and she let out a little oof of surprise.
"Dante!" She laughed, wiggling. "You're going to leave fingerprints."
"Good." He pulled her cheeks apart, his thumbs pressing into her asshole, stretching it open. The cool air hit her there, and she shivered, but she didn't pull away. She just leaned into him, her arms still around his neck, her breasts crushed against his chest.
"You really like that, huh?" she asked, her voice bright, oblivious to the way the saleswoman had frozen behind the counter, her mouth slightly open.
"I really do." His voice was rough, almost a growl. His thumbs pressed deeper, making her asshole gape, the pink inside exposed to the soft boutique lighting. She felt a strange thrill—not arousal, exactly, but a kind of dizzying acceptance. This was Dante. This was how he showed he cared.
"I love you, you know," she said, the words slipping out before she could think about them. "Like, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
His hands stilled. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the air conditioner and the distant murmur of the mall. Then he pulled her closer, his mouth brushing her ear, his breath hot against her skin.
"Say that again."
She giggled. "I love you. You're my best friend."
He held her there, his thumbs still spread inside her, her asshole still open and bare, while she hummed a little tune against his shoulder, completely unaware of the weight of her words, the way they had lodged in his chest like a bullet that had finally found its target.
"Let's go home," she said, pulling back, oblivious to the expression on his face. "I want to try on the babydoll set for you. The pink one."
He released her slowly, his thumbs dragging out of her, leaving her empty and cool. He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and led her out of the boutique.
The mall was winding down, the crowds thinning. She walked beside him, swinging their joined hands, her transparent top still on, her nipples visible to anyone who cared to look. No one did. They didn't dare.
She was still chattering about the babydoll set when they reached the escalator. She stepped on, turning to face him, her skirt fluttering up as the escalator descended, giving him a perfect view of her bare ass, the faint pink mark where his thumbs had been.
He watched her the whole way down, his eyes never leaving her. And she smiled up at him, happy and free and completely, utterly his.
The escalator deposited them on the ground floor, and Anya tugged his hand toward the next wing of the mall, her transparent top shimmering under the lights. "There's that one boutique I saw on the way in. The one with the really pretty window display." She didn't wait for his answer—she never did—just pulled him along, her bare ass bouncing under the micro skirt, the fabric barely covering anything at all.
He followed. He always followed.
The third boutique was smaller than the others, more intimate, with a single velvet armchair in the corner and racks of silk robes arranged by color. A middle-aged woman with a tight bun looked up from her phone as they entered, her eyes scanning them once, twice, before settling on Dante with a flicker of recognition that she quickly suppressed.
"Welcome," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "Can I help you find anything?"
Anya was already drifting toward the racks, her fingers trailing over the fabrics. "Oh my god, Dante, look at this one." She held up a champagne-colored chemise, the silk so thin it was nearly transparent. "This is gorgeous."
"Try it on."
She beamed. "You read my mind." She spun toward the saleswoman. "Where are the fitting rooms?"
The woman gestured toward the back. "The last one on the left has the best lighting, miss."
Anya bounced toward the curtained alcove, the chemise draped over her arm, her hips swaying with each step. She didn't look back. She didn't need to. She knew he was watching.
He was always watching.
The fitting room was small, lined with mirrors, a single padded bench against one wall. She pulled the curtain closed behind her and shimmied out of the transparent top, letting it fall to the floor. The micro skirt followed, pooling at her ankles. She stood there in nothing but the memory of the G-string she'd abandoned somewhere in the last store, her bare skin glowing under the warm light.
She was reaching for the chemise when the curtain moved.
Dante stepped inside, filling the small space with his presence. He didn't ask. He didn't have to.
"Dante! What are you—" She laughed, her hand pausing midair. "I haven't tried it on yet."
"I know." His voice was low, unhurried. He reached past her and took the chemise from her hand, tossing it onto the bench. Then his hands found her waist, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above her hips. "I want to see something else first."
She tilted her head, curious but unafraid. "What?"
He didn't answer with words. He turned her, his hands firm on her hips, guiding her to face the bench. She went willingly, still chattering.
"You know, you're really bossy sometimes. Like, really bossy. But I guess that's just how you show you care, right? My dad was like that too. Always telling me what to do, but it was because he loved me."
She was still talking when his hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pushing her forward. She caught herself on the padded bench, her palms flat against the velvet, her ass sticking out behind her. The position felt natural—she trusted him, so she let him move her however he wanted.
"You're so strong," she said, craning her neck to look back at him. "Is that from all the working out you do? I should start working out. Maybe we could go to the gym together sometime? That would be fun. We could—"
His hands landed on her ass, and the words died in her throat. Not from shock—from the sheer pressure of his grip. He grabbed her cheeks, his fingers digging into the flesh, spreading her wide. The cool air of the fitting room hit her most intimate places, and she shivered.
"Dante." She giggled, her voice muffled against the bench. "You're so grabby today."
He didn't respond. His thumbs found her asshole, pressing into the tight ring of muscle, stretching her open. She felt the familiar sensation of being exposed, of the air touching places that were usually hidden, and she sighed contentedly. This was comfort. This was affection. This was Dante showing he cared.
"I love when you do this," she said, her voice dreamy. "It feels so... intimate. Like you really see me, you know?"
He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth close to her ear. "Spread your legs."
She obeyed without thinking, her bare feet sliding apart on the carpet. The position opened her further, her ass cheeks parting, the pink inside of her fully visible in the mirror on the opposite wall. She caught a glimpse of herself—bent over, completely naked, her body open and exposed—and she smiled. She looked happy. She was happy.
His hands left her. She heard the sound of his belt, the rasp of his zipper, and she tilted her head, curiosity flickering through her.
"What are you doing?"
"Spending time with my best friend."
She giggled. "That's sweet."
She felt something hard and warm press against the entrance of her asshole, and she blinked, her mind struggling to process the sensation. It felt familiar—she remembered something similar from the morning, the feeling of being filled while she slept. She hadn't thought much about it then. She didn't think much about it now.
"Is that—"
He pushed forward, and the words became a gasp.
The stretch was enormous, deeper than she remembered, wider than she could have imagined. Her hands gripped the velvet bench, her knuckles white, as he pressed deeper and deeper, filling her inch by inch. She felt her body struggling to accommodate him, the muscle stretching around his girth, and she let out a long, shaky breath.
"Wow," she managed, her voice high and breathless. "That's... that's really something."
He paused, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "You okay?"
"Yeah!" She laughed, a little breathless, a little dazed. "You're just—I mean, you're really—" She trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence. "You're really big, Dante."
She heard something that might have been a laugh, low and rough. "You noticed."
"Well, yeah. I'm not blind." She shifted, adjusting to the fullness. "Is this, like, a friend thing? Because I've never done this with a friend before. But I guess you're my best friend, so if anyone, it should be you, right?"
His answer was a slow, deliberate thrust.
Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open as he moved inside her, the friction sending sparks up her spine. She gripped the bench harder, her knuckles white, her body rocking forward with each movement.
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, that's—that's really—"
He pulled back and pushed in again, deeper this time, and her voice cracked.
"Dante."
"I know, baby." His voice was a growl, his hands sliding up her back, pressing her down against the bench. "I know."
She didn't know what he meant. She didn't know anything except the feeling of him inside her, stretching her, filling her, moving in a rhythm that seemed to pull her out of herself. She heard her own voice, high and disjointed, talking about nothing at all—the chemise, the color of the bench, the way the light caught the mirror—but the words were automatic, her mouth moving while her body surrendered to something she couldn't name.
"I'm glad we're doing this," she said, her voice muffled against the velvet. "I mean, we're friends, and friends do stuff together, and this is—this is definitely stuff." She giggled, but it came out as a moan. "You're really good at this, by the way. Like, really good. I feel like I should tell you that. In case you didn't know."
His hand found her hair, tangling in the black strands, pulling her head back gently. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, his hips slapping against her ass with a wet sound that echoed in the small room.
"You feel so good," he said, his voice rough, almost broken. "You have no idea how good you feel."
She beamed, her cheek pressed against the bench. "Thanks! You feel good too. Like, really warm. And full. I feel really full."
He drove into her harder, and her voice hitched, her words dissolving into a stream of sounds that weren't quite language. She felt the pressure building, something coiling in her belly, and she didn't understand it—didn't know that it was pleasure, didn't know that her body was responding to him in a way that transcended friendship.
"Dante," she breathed, her voice trembling. "Something's happening. I feel weird. Good weird. Like—"
"Let it happen."
His hand slid between her legs, his fingers finding the wet heat of her pussy, and she gasped. The touch startled her—she hadn't realized she was wet, hadn't noticed the slickness pooling between her thighs. His fingers pressed into her, curling, and she cried out, her back arching.
"I don't understand," she said, her voice high and desperate. "Why does this feel so—"
He thrust into her ass at the same moment his fingers pressed deep into her pussy, and she shattered.
It hit her like a wave, unexpected and overwhelming, her body clenching around him, her voice rising in a cry that she didn't recognize. She felt him push deeper, felt him shudder inside her, felt something warm and wet flooding her, and she collapsed against the bench, gasping.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing. Her heart pounded in her chest, her body trembling with aftershocks she didn't understand.
"Wow," she whispered, finally. "That was... that was really nice."
He stayed inside her, his forehead pressed against her back, his breathing harsh and uneven. His hands were still on her hips, gripping like she might disappear if he let go.
"You okay?"
She laughed, soft and genuine. "I'm great. I feel amazing." She turned her head, trying to look at him. "Is that what friends do? Because if it is, I think I've been missing out."
He pulled out slowly, and she felt the loss of him like a sudden emptiness, a coolness where his warmth had been. She straightened, turning to face him, her body bare and unashamed. He was tucking himself back into his pants, his movements unhurried, his eyes fixed on her.
"You're perfect," he said, his voice quiet. "You know that?"
She flushed, pleased. "You're just saying that because I let you do that thing."
"I mean it."
She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her naked body against his suit. "You're perfect too. My perfect best friend."
His arms came around her, one hand sliding down to her ass, cupping the cheek, his thumb tracing the rim of her asshole. She felt the tenderness of the gesture—or what she interpreted as tenderness—and sighed contentedly.
"I love you," she said, the words easy and natural. "You know that, right?"
He held her tighter, his face buried in her hair. "I know."
She pulled back, her smile bright. "Now let me try on that chemise. I want you to see me in it."
He released her, stepping back, his gaze never leaving her. She reached for the champagne-colored silk, pulling it over her head, letting it settle against her skin. The fabric was so thin she might as well have been naked still, and she turned to him, striking a pose.
"Well? What do you think?"
His eyes traveled over her, dark and hungry. "Buy everything in the store."
She laughed, clapping her hands. "Really?"
"Really."
She twirled, the silk flaring around her thighs, her happiness radiating off her in waves. "You're the best friend a girl could ever ask for."
She didn't see the way his hands trembled at his sides. Didn't hear the strain in his voice when he said, "I know."
She just grabbed her old clothes and bounced out of the fitting room, ready to show the saleswoman what she'd chosen, ready to spend more of his money, ready to live another day in her perfect, oblivious world.
She turned to face him fully, her champagne-colored chemise catching the soft light of the fitting room, and she saw something flicker in his grey eyes—something dark and hungry that she didn't recognize, didn't have the vocabulary for. She just thought he looked serious, the way he did when he was about to say something important.
"Anya." His voice was low, careful, the way he spoke when he wanted her to really listen. She tilted her head, her long black hair spilling over one shoulder, and waited. "I need you to promise me something."
"Anything," she said, because it was true. She'd give him anything. He was her best friend. He'd bought her everything in the store. He'd held her while she came apart. Of course she'd promise him anything.
He stepped closer, his hands finding her waist, his thumbs tracing circles on the thin silk. She felt the warmth of his palms through the fabric, felt the calluses on his fingers, and she leaned into his touch instinctively, like a cat seeking heat.
"I'm the only one," he said, his eyes holding hers. "The only friend who cuddles you. The only one who touches you like this." His hands slid down, cupping her ass through the chemise, squeezing gently. "The only one who gets to be this close to you."
She blinked, processing his words, and then her face broke into a radiant smile. "Of course, silly. You're my best friend. Why would I want anyone else to cuddle me?" She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his, feeling the hard planes of his chest through his suit. "I don't want any other friends. I just want you."
His hands tightened on her ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and she felt him exhale against her hair—a breath he'd been holding, maybe for a long time. She didn't understand why he'd been worried. She'd never even thought about cuddling anyone else. The idea felt wrong, like wearing someone else's underwear.
"You're my only BFF," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I like having just one. It's simpler. I don't have to remember anyone else's coffee order or birthday or—" She pulled back, her eyes wide. "Wait, when's your birthday? I don't know your birthday."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "March seventeenth."
"St. Patrick's Day?" She gasped, delighted. "That's so perfect. You're Irish-Russian? I didn't know that."
"I'm not Irish. My mother just thought it was a lucky day."
She laughed, bright and unguarded. "That's even better. I'm going to throw you the best birthday party. With green cake. And those little hats. And—" She stopped, her expression softening. "I'm really glad you're my friend, Dante. I mean it."
He didn't say anything. He just looked at her, his grey eyes unreadable, his hands still cupping her ass. She felt his thumbs trace the curve of her cheeks, pulling them apart slightly, and she shifted her weight, accommodating the gesture without thinking. It was just how he held her. She was used to it now.
"Okay," she said, squeezing him tighter. "I promise. You're the only one who gets to cuddle me. Deal?"
"Deal."
She kissed his cheek, quick and affectionate, then pulled away, spinning in a little circle. The chemise flared around her thighs, and she felt the cool air on her bare skin, felt the fabric slide against her nipples. She loved the way it felt. Light. Pretty. Expensive.
"So," she said, her voice bright, "what else is in this store? I saw a corset on the way in. A red one. With black lace." She bit her lip, already imagining it. "Do you think I'd look good in red?"
"You'd look good in anything."
She beamed, taking his hand and pulling him toward the fitting room door. "Come on. I want to try on everything. And I mean everything. You have to tell me which ones you like best."
He followed her without resistance, his hand warm and solid in hers, and she pushed open the door, stepping back into the main floor of the lingerie boutique. The saleswoman looked up, her eyes flickering to Dante, then to Anya, and something in her expression shifted—a wariness, a recognition. Anya didn't notice. She was already heading toward the rack of corsets, her fingers trailing over the fabrics.
"Ooh, this one." She pulled out a deep burgundy piece, the boning visible through the satin, the cups structured and dramatic. "This is gorgeous. I'm going to look like a Victorian vampire." She laughed, holding it up against her body. "In a sexy way."
Dante stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his eyes tracking her every movement. She felt his gaze like a physical thing, warm and constant, and she preened under it, striking a little pose.
"What do you think? Yes or no?"
"Yes."
"You said that about the last one too."
"Because I meant it."
She giggled, adding the corset to the growing pile in her arms. The saleswoman had already started a tab, her fingers moving over the register with practiced efficiency. Anya didn't look at the prices. She didn't need to. Dante had given her the card, and the card worked, and that was all that mattered.
She moved through the store like a whirlwind, pulling things off racks, holding them up, discarding them, adding them. A black lace babydoll. A crimson teddy with a garter belt attached. A sheer white bodysuit that was practically transparent. A set of pastel pink lingerie with tiny bows on the straps. She held up each piece, asked Dante's opinion, and added it to the pile when he nodded.
At one point, she found a micro G-string made entirely of silver chains. She held it up, the metal catching the light, and laughed. "This is ridiculous. It's basically jewelry for my ass."
"Get it."
"Really?"
"Really."
She added it to the pile, her heart swelling with affection for him. He always said yes. He never told her something was too much or too expensive or too silly. He just watched her with those dark eyes and let her be happy.
She loved him for that. She loved him for a lot of things, actually. For the way he held her at night. For the way he touched her like she was precious. For the way he'd given her a card that let her buy anything she wanted, without asking questions, without making her feel guilty.
She turned, her arms full of lace and silk, and found him standing near a display of robes, his phone in his hand, his brow furrowed slightly. She bounced over to him, the pile wobbling precariously.
"Everything okay?"
He looked up, and the furrow smoothed out immediately. "Fine. Work stuff."
"Well, tell work stuff to wait. I need your full attention for this next one." She dropped the pile on a nearby velvet ottoman and grabbed his hand, pulling him toward a rack of chemises. "I saw this one earlier and I need to know if it's too much."
She held up a black lace chemise that was cut so low it would barely cover her nipples. The hem would hit mid-thigh, and the back was completely open, held together by a single ribbon at the base of her spine.
"Too much?" she asked, her eyes wide and hopeful.
His gaze traveled over the garment, then over her, and something in his expression tightened. "No."
She grinned, adding it to the pile. "I didn't think so."
She spent another hour in the store, trying on pieces, modeling them for him, twirling and posing while he sat in a plush armchair near the fitting rooms, watching her with that quiet intensity she'd come to associate with affection. She didn't question why he never looked away. She didn't wonder why his hands stayed still, resting on his thighs, his knuckles white. She just basked in his attention, in the warmth of being seen.
When she finally emerged from the fitting room for the last time, wearing her original outfit—the transparent crop top and the micro skirt she'd bought on their first shopping trip—she found him standing by the register, sliding the black card across the counter. The saleswoman's hands trembled slightly as she swiped it, and Anya noticed, but she didn't think much of it. Maybe the woman was cold. Maybe she was nervous about the total.
"How much?" Anya asked, bouncing over to him.
"Enough."
She laughed, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek against his back. "You're so mysterious. I love it."
He turned, his hand finding hers, and she felt his fingers intertwine with hers. Warm. Solid. Safe.
"Ready to go?" he asked.
"Ready." She beamed up at him. "Thank you. For everything. For today. For—" She gestured vaguely at the bags the saleswoman was loading into glossy white carriers. "For all of this."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I want to." She rose on her tiptoes, kissing his cheek again. "You're the best."
He didn't respond, but his hand tightened on hers, and she felt the pressure like a promise.
They walked out of the store hand in hand, the bags swinging from his other arm, and the mall air hit her—cool and stale, carrying the mingled scents of perfume and food-court grease. She breathed it in, feeling light, feeling happy, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.
She swung their joined hands as they walked, her skirt fluttering around her thighs, her transparent top doing nothing to hide the bounce of her breasts. She felt eyes on her—she always felt eyes on her—but she didn't look. She just focused on Dante, on the warmth of his hand, on the way he matched his pace to hers without being asked.
"Where to now?" she asked, her voice bright. "We could get ice cream. Or go see a movie. Or—" She gasped, stopping mid-step. "Oh! We should get matching tattoos."
He looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. "Matching tattoos."
"Yeah! Like, best friend bracelets, but permanent." She tugged on his hand, her excitement building. "We could get little hearts. Or stars. Or—" She paused, considering. "Or maybe just each other's initials. Somewhere small. Like on our wrists."
He stared at her for a long moment, and she saw something shift in his grey eyes—something she couldn't name, something that made her heart skip for reasons she didn't understand.
"No," he said finally, his voice quiet. "Not matching."
Her face fell, just slightly. "Oh. Okay. That's—that's fine. We don't have to—"
"I'll get your name," he said, cutting her off. "Somewhere only I can see."
She blinked, processing his words, and then a slow smile spread across her face. "That's... actually really romantic. For a best friend." She laughed, squeezing his hand. "Okay, deal. You get my name. I'll get—" She thought for a moment. "I'll get a little flower. To match my personality."
He didn't argue. He just nodded, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand, and she felt a surge of affection so strong it almost hurt.
She loved him. She loved him so much it made her chest tight, made her want to hug him and never let go. She didn't know what she'd done to deserve a friend like him, but she was grateful. Every single day, she was grateful.
They walked through the mall, past stores she'd never bothered to notice, past people who parted around them like water around a stone. She didn't see the way men's eyes slid away from her when they caught Dante's gaze. She didn't see the way women clutched their purses a little tighter, the way security guards straightened when they passed. She just saw her best friend, holding her hand, buying her things, making her feel like the most important person in the world.
And when they reached the exit, the glass doors sliding open to let in the warm afternoon air, she turned to him, her smile bright and unguarded.
"Best day ever," she said. "Thank you."
He looked down at her, his grey eyes soft in a way they never were for anyone else, and he lifted their joined hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
"Anything for you," he said.
She felt the warmth of his lips on her skin, felt the tenderness of the gesture, and her heart swelled. She didn't question it. She didn't wonder why it made her feel so full, so complete. She just accepted it, the way she accepted everything from him—with joy, with gratitude, with the simple, unshakeable belief that this was what friendship looked like.
She was so lucky.
She didn't see the way his hands trembled as he released hers. Didn't hear the way his breath hitched when she turned away. Didn't notice the way he watched her, his hunger barely contained, his obsession worn like a second skin.
She just skipped ahead, her skirt fluttering, her laughter echoing in the parking lot, already planning what she'd wear from their haul tomorrow.
And he followed, because that's what he did. He followed her everywhere, waiting for the day she finally turned around and saw him for what he really was.
But not yet. Not today.
Today, she was just happy.
He led her through the mall, past a jewelry store and a café, until they stopped in front of a boutique she hadn't noticed before—all soft pink lighting and mannequins in lace, the windows frosted with elegant script she couldn't read. She tilted her head, reading the name aloud, and it sounded French and expensive and exactly like the kind of place she'd never have walked into alone.
"Another one?" She turned to him, her eyes wide, her smile already spreading. "Dante, you already bought me so much. I don't need—"
"I want to." His voice was quiet, final, and she felt his hand settle on the small of her back, guiding her forward. "There's more I want to see you in."
Her heart did a little flip—the kind she'd started to associate with him, the kind she didn't think too hard about. She just let herself be guided, let the warmth of his palm seep through the thin fabric of her transparent top, and pushed open the door.
The store smelled like roses and clean silk. Soft music played from hidden speakers, and the woman behind the counter looked up with a practiced smile that faltered when she saw Dante. Her eyes flicked to Anya, then back to him, and something in her expression tightened—recognition, maybe, or wariness. She smoothed her hands over her skirt and stepped forward.
"Mr. Castellano. How can we help you today?"
Anya blinked, looking between them. "Oh, you know him?"
The woman's smile was careful. "Everyone knows Mr. Castellano."
Anya beamed, slipping her arm through Dante's. "He's the best. He's taking me shopping. He has really good taste." She leaned in, lowering her voice to a mock-whisper. "He picked out everything I'm wearing right now."
The woman's gaze dropped to Anya's transparent top, to the visible outline of her nipples, to the micro skirt that barely covered her thighs. She swallowed, her smile strained. "I can see that."
Anya didn't notice the tension. She was already drifting toward a rack of lace bodysuits, her fingers trailing over the fabric. "Dante, look at this one. It's got little straps here—" She held it up, a delicate thing in deep burgundy, and her enthusiasm was so genuine that the saleswoman seemed to forget her unease.
"That's one of our newest pieces," the woman said, recovering. "It comes with matching garters."
"Garters?" Anya's eyes lit up. "I've never worn garters."
"You will," Dante said, and his voice was low, certain, like he was stating a fact rather than making a suggestion. "Try it on."
She didn't argue. She took the bodysuit and a handful of other pieces the saleswoman handed her, disappearing into the dressing room with a skip in her step. The curtain fell behind her, and she heard the click of the lock, heard Dante's footsteps settle just outside.
She stripped off her top, her skirt, her cherry thong, standing naked in the soft light of the dressing room. The mirror showed her everything—her curves, her confidence, the way she held herself like she had nothing to hide. She smiled at her reflection, then reached for the burgundy bodysuit.
It was a struggle to get into, all delicate straps and strategic cutouts, but when she finally managed it, she turned to the mirror and gasped. It hugged her like a second skin, the fabric plunging between her breasts, leaving her ass almost completely exposed except for a thin strip of lace. She looked... incredible.
"Dante?" She pushed the curtain aside, stepping out. "What do you think?"
He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his grey eyes fixed on her the moment she appeared. She saw his jaw tighten, saw something flicker in his gaze—that same something she'd seen before, the thing she couldn't name and didn't question.
"Good," he said, his voice rough. "Try the next one."
She beamed, twirling so he could see the full effect, the lace shifting against her skin. "You really like it?"
"I do."
She disappeared back into the dressing room, her heart fluttering. She tried on a black lace set next—bralette and matching thong, the fabric so sheer it was practically see-through. Then a white one with delicate pearl buttons down the front. Then a red corset that cinched her waist and pushed her breasts up until they spilled over the edge.
Each time she emerged, he was there. Each time, his eyes tracked her, dark and hungry and patient. Each time, he nodded, said "good" or "yes" or "that one," and she felt a thrill that she wrote off as the joy of shopping with her best friend.
When she came out in the fifth set—a pale pink babydoll that ended just below her ribs, leaving her ass completely bare—she didn't make it back to the dressing room.
His hand caught her wrist, pulling her gently toward him. She stumbled, laughing, and ended up pressed against his chest, the lace of the babydoll crumpling against his suit.
"Dante?" She looked up at him, still giggling. "What are you doing?"
He didn't answer. His hand slid down her back, over the curve of her ass, and she felt his fingers dig into the soft flesh. She didn't flinch. She just smiled, thinking he was being affectionate, the way he always was.
"I knew you'd like this one," she said, her voice bright. "The color's really pretty, right? And it's so soft—"
He squeezed. Hard. Her words faltered for a fraction of a second, but she recovered quickly, laughing it off. "Okay, okay, you really like it. I get it."
His other hand joined the first, both palms cupping her ass, and she felt him spread her cheeks apart. The air hit her where the fabric didn't cover—her asshole, exposed now, and she wriggled slightly, not from discomfort but from the ticklish sensation.
"That feels weird," she said, still laughing. "What are you doing?"
He pulled her cheeks wider, and she felt the stretch, felt the cool air against places that weren't used to it. She shifted her weight, but she didn't pull away. This was just Dante. This was how he showed he cared. She knew that.
"You're so pretty like this," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. "So perfect."
Her heart swelled. "Aww, thank you. You're pretty perfect too, you know. For a best friend."
He didn't respond. He just held her there, his thumbs tracing the edge of her asshole, and she felt her body respond without her permission—a slight tensing, a flutter she didn't understand. She ignored it, focusing instead on the warmth of his hands, the way they made her feel safe.
"Should I try on the next one?" she asked, her voice still cheerful. "There's that blue set I saw, the one with the little bows. I think that one would look really cute—"
He squeezed harder. His fingers pressed into her flesh, and she felt the pressure, felt her cheeks being compressed, felt the strange sensation of being held so tightly that movement was almost impossible. She didn't stop talking.
"—and maybe we could get that matching robe? I saw it on the mannequin, and it looked so soft. I bet it would be perfect for lazy mornings. We could have lazy mornings together, right? Just cuddling on the couch, watching movies—"
His fingers slipped lower, finding the gap between her cheeks, and she felt one finger press against her asshole. She paused, her brow furrowing, but only for a moment. He was probably adjusting the fabric. That made sense. The babydoll had a lot of straps, and they probably needed adjusting.
"Do you think the blue one would look better?" she asked, resuming her chatter. "Or maybe the green? I saw a green one earlier, but I wasn't sure if it would match my skin tone. What do you think?"
His finger pressed harder, and she felt the tip slide inside her—just barely, just the first knuckle, and she gasped, not from pain but from surprise. She didn't move away. She didn't tell him to stop. She just laughed, looking over her shoulder at him.
"Dante, what are you doing?" Her voice was light, teasing. "You're supposed to be helping me shop, not—"
He pushed deeper. His finger slid into her asshole, and she felt the stretch, felt the intrusion, felt her body clench around him involuntarily. She let out a little sound—not quite a gasp, not quite a moan—and her hips shifted, accommodating him without her even thinking about it.
"That's—that's really—" She laughed again, a little breathless. "You're so silly. What are you doing back there?"
He didn't answer. His finger pumped slowly, in and out, and she felt herself relaxing around him, felt her body accepting him the way it accepted everything from him. She leaned back against his chest, her head falling against his shoulder, and she let out a soft sigh.
"You're weird," she said, but there was no accusation in her voice. Just affection. "But I love you anyway."
His breath hitched against her ear, and she felt his other hand move from her ass to her hip, steadying her. His finger curled inside her, stretching her, and she felt a strange pleasure flicker through her—something she didn't examine, didn't name. She just let it wash over her, let him do whatever he needed to do.
"You're so good," he said, his voice strained. "So good for me."
"Of course I am." She turned her head, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "You're my best friend. I'd do anything for you."
His finger pushed deeper. His thumb pressed against her perineum, and she felt the pressure build, felt her body respond in ways she didn't understand. She opened her mouth to say something—to ask what he was doing, maybe, or to tell him they should get back to shopping—but the words dissolved into a soft moan that surprised her.
"Dante—"
"Shh," he said, his lips brushing her ear. "Let me take care of you."
She nodded, her eyes fluttering closed. That sounded nice. Being taken care of. She liked being taken care of. And if this was how he wanted to do it—with his finger inside her, with his other hand gripping her hip—then that was fine. That was good. That was what friends did.
He added a second finger, and she gasped, her body tensing at the stretch. It was more than she expected, more than she'd ever had back there, and she felt her toes curl against the plush carpet of the dressing room. But she didn't tell him to stop. She just held onto his arm, her fingers digging into his sleeve, and let him work her open.
"That's—that's a lot—" she managed, her voice breathy.
"You can take it." His voice was low, certain. "You can take anything I give you."
She believed him. Of course she believed him. He was Dante. He knew everything.
He scissored his fingers inside her, stretching her wider, and she felt her asshole clench around him, felt the strange, full sensation of being opened up. She didn't understand why he was doing this—didn't understand what it meant—but she trusted him. She trusted him completely.
"You ready for more?" he asked.
She nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. Whatever you want."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, and she felt the emptiness immediately, a strange ache she didn't have time to process. Before she could ask what was happening, she felt something thicker pressing against her—something warmer, something that made her eyes go wide.
"Dante?" Her voice was small, uncertain for the first time. "Is that—"
"Shh." His hand came up to cover her mouth, gentle but firm. "You wanted this. You've always wanted this."
She blinked, confused. Had she? She didn't remember wanting this. But Dante wouldn't lie to her. Dante was her best friend. If he said she wanted this, then she must want this.
She relaxed against him, her body going soft, and she felt him press forward. The head of his cock pushed against her asshole, and she gasped against his palm, her hands gripping his arm as the pressure built. He was big. She'd never thought about it before, but she felt it now—the stretch, the fullness, the way he seemed to fill her completely.
"Breathe," he said, his voice soft. "Breathe for me."
She tried. She took a shaky breath, and as she exhaled, he pushed inside her. It was a lot. It was too much. But she didn't tell him to stop. She just held onto him, her eyes squeezed shut, and let him fill her inch by inch.
"Good girl," he said, and the praise washed over her, warm and comforting. "So good for me."
She felt a smile tug at her lips, even through the stretch. She liked making him proud. She liked being good for him.
He began to move, slow and deep, and she felt herself relax around him, felt her body accept him the way it accepted everything. She didn't understand what was happening—didn't understand why this felt good, why it felt right—but she didn't question it. She just let him take what he wanted, because that's what friends did. They gave each other what they needed.
"You're so tight," he said, his voice rough. "So perfect."
She laughed, a little breathless. "You're—you're really into this, huh?"
"I'm into you."
Her heart swelled. "Aww. I'm into you too. You're my favorite person."
He thrust deeper, and she felt him hit something inside her, something that made her see stars. She let out a moan, muffled by his palm, and her knees buckled slightly.
"Hold on to me," he said. "I've got you."
She nodded, her fingers digging into his arm, and he fucked her harder. The slap of his skin against hers filled the small dressing room, and she felt herself losing track of time, losing track of everything except the feeling of him inside her, filling her, claiming her in a way she didn't have words for.
She didn't know how long it lasted. Minutes, maybe. Hours. Time blurred into sensation—his cock sliding in and out, his hand gripping her hip, his breath hot against her ear. She felt herself building toward something, a pressure she didn't recognize, and then it crested, washing over her in waves that made her legs give out completely.
He held her up, still thrusting, still taking what he wanted. She heard him groan, felt him pulse inside her, and then warmth flooded her, filling her in a way that made her feel complete.
They stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, tangled together in the soft pink light of the dressing room. She felt him soften inside her, felt him pull out slowly, and she shivered at the loss of him.
"Did I do good?" she asked, her voice small and hopeful.
He turned her around, cupping her face in his hands. His grey eyes were soft, reverent, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"You did perfect."
She beamed, throwing her arms around his neck. "I love being your best friend."
He held her close, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, and she felt his heart pounding against her chest. She didn't wonder why it was beating so fast. She didn't wonder why his hands were trembling. She just held him, happy and content, ready to try on the next set.
"Should I go get the blue one?" she asked, pulling back to look at him.
He nodded, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "Get all of them."
She pressed a kiss to his lips—quick, innocent, the kind of kiss friends gave each other—and skipped back into the dressing room, still in the pink babydoll, still bare beneath it. She didn't notice the way he watched her go, didn't see the hunger in his eyes, didn't feel the cum leaking down her thigh.
She was just happy. And that was all that mattered.