Lady in pink

She moves like she already owns the room, this blonde who slips back onto screen and leaves the door wide open behind her. The lingerie she wears is barely there, pink lace riding low on her hips, catching the light in soft folds across her breasts. She takes her time with it, fingers tracing the edges, pushing the straps down until the fabric pools around her ankles. Skin bare now, she settles back into the cushions, knees falling open, one hand sliding down the center of her body. The other cups her breast, thumb flicking across the nipple until it tightens. She watches her own fingers as they dip lower, finding the slick heat between her legs, stroking in lazy circles before pressing in deeper. Her breath catches, quickens. She works herself open with slow, deliberate strokes, hips lifting to meet her own hand, chasing each wave as it builds. Every sound that slips from her throat is low, raw, unfiltered. She never rushes the finish. She lets it crest and break over her, body trembling against the silk while the pink scraps of her lingerie lie forgotten on the floor.