The room was bathed by the moonlight, which slipped and danced on the red dress hanging in the open closet. His fabric seemed to ✱✱✱✱✱✱✱, as if he kept secrets. I took it, his softness sliding between my ✱✱✱✱✱✱✱, and I ✱✱✱ it on. The mirror reflected how the dress hugged my ✱✱✱✱, lighting an internal heat. I moved slowly, the fabric brushing my skin, waking up every nerve. My ✱✱✱✱✱ explored, following the curves that the dress outlined, imagining prohibited caresses. Silence amplified my breathing, the ✱✱✱✱✱✱✱ of the fabric was its own caress. I dropped into bed, the dress up by my ✱✱✱✱✱✱, guiding my ✱✱✱✱✱✱✱ towards a lonely ✱✱✱✱✱✱✱. The night and the red dress were my only lovers, weaving an intimate pleasure that did not need anyone else.