Wet T-shirt

She was about to step into a morning bath when the nighty caught the first spray. Wet cotton stuck to her breasts, thin fabric turning see-through, nipples pressing hard against the cloth. She paused, eyes fixed on the outline. Her hand reached for the shower head again, slower this time, and she aimed the stream straight at her chest. Water poured down, darkening the fabric in heavy trails. The T-shirt clung tighter with every drop, every curve clear. She pressed the wet cotton against her skin, fingers circling one stiff nipple, then the other, breath catching as the fabric dragged across them. The shower kept running. She kept watching.