They arrived fashionably late—because of course they did. Elvis never walked in on time, and neither did she. But this night was different. From the second the car pulled up to the drive, he felt it—something coiled in his gut, low and slow like the first hum of a song before the drums kick in.

He hadn’t seen her dress until she stepped out of the damn car.

And when she did?

His mouth went dry.

She wasn’t like the others. Never had been. Always a bit quiet in her beauty, elegant in a way you couldn’t quite describe but always felt. Long sleeves, high collars, silhouettes that whispered instead of screamed. There was something sacred in her restraint. Like her modesty wasn’t fear—it was control.

But tonight… Lord have mercy.

That dress didn’t whisper.

It roared.

Black velvet, soft as sin, cut so low it was barely clinging to her shoulders. A plunging V down the center that didn’t stop until it hit her belly, and baby, those curves—those curves—on display like a forbidden painting someone finally dared to hang in the Louvre.

She stepped out of that car, heels clicking against the pavement, hair pinned just right, skin glowing under the soft porch lights like a dream wrapped in silk. And the second she did?

The whole damn world tilted.

Elvis couldn’t even move.

His hand twitched at his side like it wanted to reach for her, like he had to touch her just to make sure she was real. That no one else would dare. That this—this—was for him.

They walked into the party, and the room practically held its breath. All eyes turned. Women stared—some in awe, some in judgment, some wishing they’d had the guts to wear what she did. Men stared, too long, too boldly, and Elvis felt it every time.

He felt it.

And God help him, it made something in his chest go tight and hot.

She didn’t flinch though. That was the worst part. She walked through that room like she’d worn that dress her whole life. Calm. Unbothered. Her chin was up, her gaze steady, and every step said: I know exactly who I am. You’re just catching up.

Elvis couldn’t stop watching her.

Every curve, every bounce, every slow blink of those lashes as she leaned in to speak softly to someone who didn’t deserve it.

She was untouchable.

But she was his.

He followed close, one hand drifting to the small of her back, just to remind the world—and himself—who she came with. And when one of the guests (some smug bastard from the label) let his eyes linger too long, Elvis didn’t even hesitate.

He leaned in close to her ear, voice low, words meant for her and her alone:

“You wear that dress like you’re trying to make me lose my damn mind. And I gotta tell you, baby… it’s workin’.”