Home alone

Sophie Moone sprawls across the empty couch. She’s never the apron-wearing type; chores can wait. She peels the shirt up over her head, letting the cool air kiss her breasts. The fabric slides down her thighs and pools on the floor until she’s bare, every curve on display. Her fingers roam with lazy purpose—over nipples, across her belly, then lower. She parts her legs, strokes her swollen lips until they glisten and the dark cushion beneath her starts to darken with heat. The first moan slips out unforced, low and hungry. She keeps circling, pressing, quickening the rhythm until her hips lift, chasing the edge. Breath turns ragged. Another cry, louder, and her whole body tightens, shudders, then melts into the cushions as the rush crests and leaves her glowing.