Perfect 10

Ivette steps in like she owns the room. Her body has that rare balance people call a perfect 10: long legs, full breasts that strain the thin fabric of her summer dress, and the fresh, open face of a girl barely out of her teens. She peels the dress away without hurry, lets it fall. Sunlight crosses her bare skin. Nothing underneath. She sinks into the cushions, legs parted. One hand slides down her stomach, finds the soft heat between her thighs. Her fingers move slowly at first, lazy circles, then faster as her breath shortens. The blonde strands of her hair spread across the pillow. Her nipples tighten, dark pink against pale skin. Across from her, a brunette watches every move. Dark eyes, full lips, her own curves just as generous. She leans in, brushes Ivette’s knee with her fingertips. The touch turns firmer, travels higher. Two pairs of hands now—blonde and brunette—working together, slow strokes turning urgent. Ivette arches. Her thighs tense. The brunette’s mouth finds a nipple, sucks gently, then harder. The room fills with wet sounds, quick breaths, the low catch of a moan. Ivette comes first, sudden and sharp, hips lifting off the cushions. The brunette follows seconds later, fingers still buried inside her, eyes half-closed, lost in the same rush. They stay tangled, skin flushed, hearts slowing. Nothing left to hide.