Shy?

She glances at the mirror, lips parting. Do I look shy? Maybe. The question slips out soft, almost a tease. Her fingers graze the curve of her breast, then drop lower, like she’s deciding whether to keep going. The blonde strands catch the light as she turns, hips tilting, the slender line of her waist exposed. She knows the way her body moves—the slow shift of her shoulders, the lift of her small, round tits, the quiet invitation in the sway of her thighs. She isn’t playing innocent. The smile says she knows exactly what she’s offering, and she isn’t holding back. Her hand slides between her legs, testing the heat there, and her breath catches. The hunger on her face mirrors what she imagines in yours. She spreads her knees wider, rocking her hips into her own touch, the wetness slick against her fingertips. Every motion is deliberate, the kind of show she gives when she’s alone but wants to feel watched. The tension builds in the flick of her wrist, in the way her back arches when she finds the rhythm that makes her thighs tremble. She bites her lip, eyes half-lidded, riding the edge she’s created. Nothing hidden. Just the raw, unhurried pleasure of a girl who likes being seen.