Delicate pink

The pink lingerie clings like a secret. She knows exactly what it does to the men who see her. She turns once, slow, then reaches behind her back. The clasp gives with a soft click. The fabric slides down her arms and drops to the floor. Her skin meets the air, bare and warm. She runs her hands over her stomach, up to her breasts, cupping them the way she likes. Her nipples stiffen between her fingers. She lowers herself onto the bed, legs parting without hurry. One hand stays at her chest while the other slips lower, between her thighs, finding the heat already waiting there. She starts slow, tracing small circles, feeling every inch of herself. Her breath changes. The rhythm builds. She lifts her hips, pressing into her own touch. The other hand moves faster now, matching the pulse between her legs. Her body tightens, then gives way, shuddering under her own fingers. She stays there, breathing hard, skin flushed, the pink fabric forgotten at her feet.