Ilsa let the antique kimono sigh off her shoulders and laid it, gently, on the duvet. The old silk made a bright splash against the soft taupe of the cashmere. Marshall had bought that kimono from a street vendor in Kyoto on their first trip together, so long ago, before they were even married.
Turning to her clothes, neatly laid out across the foot of the bed, the thought of Marshall made her flinch inside.
Still, she picked up the silk stockings and slid them up the length of her legs. Her fingers fumbled, slightly, on the unfamiliar hardware of the garters for a moment before the old muscle memory returned and she fastened the clasp through the whisper-thin fabric. Then a pair of simple black knickers.
Reaching for the bra, her hand paused. The black bustier was simple, elegant, perfectly serviceable for the gown she intended to wear. She'd bought it last time she was in Paris, justifying it as a little self-indulgence after her ordeal with that dreadful man. But now, in the soft light of her bedroom, it was however, undeniably a piece of lingerie, rather than merely an undergarment.
Wearing this bustier to meet Connie seemed, suddenly, enormously disrespectful and Ilsa stared, wondering why she had even thought of wearing something so overtly sensual just to go to La Traviata with her sister-in-law.
But you're not simply going to the opera, she thought in the deepest corners of her mind. There's a stop to make first.
Ilsa balked at following that thought to the obvious conclusion and firmed her chin as she resolutely grasped the bustier. It took her a moment to deduce the trick of putting one on - Marshall had preferred a very different sort of lingerie and she hadn't ever worn one quite like this before. Finally, she managed all the small hooks and eyes, and settled her breasts into the satin-lined cups. It was a rather erotic feeling, she admitted - the pressure of the stays against her ribs, the way the fabric cupped and caressed her breasts. The mere act of breathing moved the smooth material across her skin, caused her to be very aware of her body.
Shaking that idea from her mind, Ilsa stepped into the high heeled Italian sandals and buckled them around her ankle. They were also new and quite elegant, she thought, admiring the arch of her foot and the line of her calf.
As she walked to the dressing room to fetch her gown, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. The sight was arresting.
The black silk and satin looked stark against the warm gold of her skin, the garters framing her hips in smooth black lines. Her breasts were lifted and the top curves exposed by the corset, her narrow waist emphasized along with the flare of her hips. Her upswept hair revealed the line of her jaw, the arch of her throat, the bow of her clavicle. She didn't look like a woman about to meet her sister-in-law for a dull night at the opera. She looked like a woman about to meet her lover.
The simple truth stood, revealed, in the reflection of the mirror.
Marshall made certain I was always surrounded with such fine things, she thought, sweeping her hand down the stays of the bustier, feeling the fine silk. How could I want someone so ... rough?
She closed her eyes and imagined, for a sliver of a moment, the feeling of his calloused hands on her bare thighs, the stubble of his chin on her belly, her nails across his muscled shoulders. She shuddered, once, as desire flared along her body for the first time since Marshall disappeared. The sensation was wholly unexpected, entirely unbidden, and perfectly impossible.
Ilsa stared at herself in the mirror, her eyes wide as the implications unfolded in her mind.
"This simply will not do," she said, her voice brittle in the silent room.
And she walked away from the image of the sensuous woman in the mirror, working hard to ignore the sudden sweet hunger that stirred low in her belly.