Meeting Misha

Misha walks in like she already owns the room. Honey-blonde hair loose over her shoulders, a little smile that says she knows exactly what she wants. She drops onto the bed, legs tucked beneath her, and starts slow—fingers tracing the inside of her thigh, slipping beneath the thin cotton of her panties. The fabric clings for a moment, then gives. She pushes it aside and finds herself wet, warm, ready. Two fingers slide in easy, curling just right, her hips rolling to meet the rhythm she sets. Breath quickens. Her free hand cups her breast, thumb brushing the stiff peak through lace, squeezing until she gasps. She kicks the panties clear off, spreads wider, and works herself with purpose—thumb circling her clit, two fingers pumping deep. The bed creaks beneath her. She bites her lip, eyes half-lidded, chasing the edge until her thighs start to shake. A sharp, soft cry escapes her as the orgasm hits, fingers still moving, drawing every last ripple from her body before she finally stills, flushed and smiling.