Red fever

She said red was the color that matched her heat, so she came to prove it. The dress clings in the shade of that burning color, but she moves past the fabric fast. Slim fingers find the edges, sliding the material off her shoulders. Underneath, bright red lace hugs her tits and cuts high on her hips. The panties are tiny. Her skin flashes warm against the color. She turns once, letting the light hit the curve of her back and the swell of her ass. Then she stops playing with clothes. She sinks onto the edge of the bed, knees apart. One hand slides down, slips beneath the lace. The other cups a breast, thumb brushing the nipple until it stands stiff. Her breath catches, deepens. Fingers work in slow circles, then quicker. Wet sounds start low and steady. She bites her lip, hips rolling to meet her hand. The heat shows everywhere—in flushed skin, in parted thighs, in the way her eyes half-close when she presses deeper. She keeps going, chasing that sharp edge, breathing hard through it, and never looks away.