Romantic

The second I saw the rose print on that sheer top and the soft fall of the skirt, I knew today was going to be slow and sweet. I slipped them on, sat down on the wicker chair, and let my hands start where they wanted—gentle strokes over the fabric first, then under it. Fingers traced the edge of lace against bare skin, slipping lower, parting, finding heat. I leaned back, skirt hiked, thighs open, moving to my own rhythm. Every touch was unhurried, every breath softer than the last. Just me, the quiet creak of wicker, and the slow build I had no intention of rushing.