Meanwhile in the Studio

Traffic hums beyond the windows, but Sandy hears none of it. She’s already given herself to the quiet studio above the bridge. Her fingers slide under her shirt, cup her breasts, pinch the tight nipples until a low sound slips out of her throat. The other hand moves lower, finds heat, finds slick skin, traces slow circles that grow faster, more desperate. The wet sound of her fingers working between her thighs fills the room. She pushes, strokes, rubs harder, chasing the tight ache that coils inside her until her hips jerk and a trembling moan breaks free, the city still roaring unseen on the other side of the glass.