His scarred fingers brushed against your shoulder, his gaze unwavering as he watched your reflection in the mirror before you. With a gentle touch, he began to loosen the threads of your corset, each movement deliberate and intimate.

His thumb slid down your spine, tracing the curve of your back until it reached your lower back, where his finger pressed firmly against you. "I don't appreciate the idea of you wearing a corset, princess," he murmured, almost thoughtfully. "It's too tight. I worry you might not be able to breathe at the ball," he whispered, his breath warm against your neck.

His gaze dropped to your skin, his touch lingering longer than necessary as he savored the moment. Finally, he started removing the corset, letting it fall to the floor with a soft rustle. His gaze fixed on your naked back, his fingertips tracing the contours of your muscles with a gentle reverence. He knew he should be preparing you for the ball, not removing your clothes, but he couldn't help it.