But from the construction of the garment — if construction was even the appropriate word for something that appeared to have been designed by an individual whose concept of fabric conservation bordered on the pathological — the dress was everything.
It gave him a view of everything:
Just below her chest, the material parted in an aperture that left her breasts a single, solitary, gossamer-thin clasp away from spilling free...
...Above that, the neckline plunged to expose her cleavage so deep and so unambiguous that nearly half of each full, heavy breast was presented to the ambient air like an offering at an altar built specifically for the worship of her body.
The fabric itself was thin treacherously and punitively thin; and her nipples, erect and straining against the diaphanous material, punctured through the dress like two accusations levelled at the garment for daring to exist between them and his gaze.
