He'd never liked a woman who took control. Not before now. The thought of a woman being able to do anything better than himself (such as take off his own damned clothes) had always been demeaning; and in the few instances in the past that his clothes had found their way to the floor, he'd removed them himself. With Febby, however, the feeling of her hands on the buttons on her shirt and then his skin—

He suddenly became all too aware of the tightness in his trousers. His hands slid around her waist and them onto her ass before he pulled her tighter against him. Their difference in height (or rather their closeness in height) made everything all the more convenient; here was little of her that he couldn't feel.

Though he was anxious about making a fool of himself, he was also anxious to get her out of her clothes. Having her out of her clothes would put all of his attention on her, meaning his own insecurities would fly right out the window. Balling up whatever fabric he could reach in his fists, he started to tug it higher and higher up her legs, his fingers in search of skin. It didn't take too long—it wasn't as if there were many layers, anyways—and soon he had a fistful of her dress down to them hem. Pulling back ever so slightly, he gave her a mischievous smile.

"You best let me lift it off or there won't be anything for you to wear home," he teased, giving her dress a little tug. All that would be left were his trousers, which...surprisingly was't that much of a big deal.

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