Her collarbones shimmered with sweat, her neck pulsed with a vein I wanted to suck, her waist dipped in a perfect arc that screamed for my hands to bruise.
Her ass, round and firm, stretched the lace to its limit, the cleft between her cheeks a dark tease. Her thighs, thick and powerful, flexed with every subtle shift, the inner softness begging to be spread. Her feet, delicate, arches high, toes painted blood-red, curled slightly under my gaze.
She let me burn for her.
And then she moved.
A single step, slow and deliberate, the slit in her skirt flashing more thigh, more hip, more of that slick, glistening shadow between her legs. Her fingers—long, manicured, nails red to match her toes—trailed up her own body, teasing, torturing.
She started at her hip, tracing the edge of the lace, her touch light but deliberate, nails scraping just enough to make her skin flush. Up, up, over the curve of her waist, her fingers lingering in the dip, circling, as if inviting mine to follow.
