Be my Valentine...

She starts with that line. Simple. Almost shy. The gift she unwraps is herself. Tiny lace clings to pale skin, framing the swell of her ass, a blonde fall of hair brushing her shoulders. Valentine’s red flickers somewhere in the lingerie’s trim. She watches herself in the mirror at first, then forgets it, sliding one hand between her thighs. Her fingers move slowly, deliberately. You see her getting wetter, the fabric darkening where she presses. A sharp breath catches. Her hips rock forward, small and instinctive, and she stays that way—standing, bent just enough, giving everything to the motion. Nothing hurried. Just that slow build, that slick sound, and the low, private sound she makes when it finally tips over.