Denim babe

The denim clings where it counts. Low-slung jeans cup the full swell of her ass, the jacket barely holding the heavy, rounded breasts that push against the worn fabric. She turns once, slow, just enough for the seams to strain. Then she starts the tease: zipper down an inch, pause, another inch. Her nipples brush cool air as the jacket parts, and she shrugs the denim off her shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. The jeans come next. She pops the button, works the waistband over her hips, the denim rasping softly against her skin as it peels away. Nothing underneath. She steps free, now only the memory of blue cotton against flushed, bare curves. She cups one breast, thumb circling the stiff peak, then lets her hand drift lower. Fingers trace between her thighs, parting, sliding, wet and slick. Her breath catches. She sinks onto the bed, legs open, denim forgotten at her feet, eyes half-closed, hand moving in a steady, hungry rhythm.