English rose

The room pulls you in. Deep armchairs, heavy rose-printed paper climbing the walls. London light filters through lace curtains and lands on bare thighs. She settles back, blonde hair spilling over silk. Her fingers slip beneath black lace, slow and sure, parting the fabric. Every stroke drags a quiet sound from her throat. She lifts her hips, giving the mirror a fuller view of pale skin and the curve of her ass. No rush. She traces circles, dips lower, lets the wetness coat her fingers. Her breath catches, then steadies. Legs widen. She pushes two fingers inside, eyes half-closed, hips rolling to meet each thrust. The rose print watches. She doesn’t stop until her thighs tremble and the chair creaks under her weight.