Love is like a red rose

I walk in and there they are. Red roses on the table. A card that says my secret admirer thought of me. Heat spreads between my legs before I even read the words twice. I slip out of my work clothes, the fabric sliding over my skin, and stretch out on the couch in nothing but my bra and panties. My fingers move down my stomach, then lower. I press against the thin cotton, feeling the dampness already waiting. Blonde hair fans across the pillow as my free hand cups a breast, thumb circling the nipple through lace until it stiffens. I push the fabric aside and touch bare skin, slow circles that turn firmer, wetter. A soft gasp slips out when I find the right rhythm. Legs part wider. The petals on the table are soft, red, open. I watch them while two fingers slide inside me, then out again, slick and shining. My breath quickens. I roll onto my side, one knee drawn up, working faster now, hips lifting to meet each stroke. The card flutters to the floor. I don’t care. All I want is the next wave, the next rush, the way my body tightens and releases in hard, sweet pulses until I’m trembling and spent, roses still watching from the table.