Wicked

She stood in the doorway wearing barely more than string and attitude. The bright triangles of fabric stretched across her small, firm tits, the thin straps cutting lines across the smooth curves of her hips. Her body wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. The wicked glint in her eye did the talking. She slipped one hand behind the fabric, fingers sliding down between her thighs. A small gasp escaped her lips as her middle finger pressed exactly where she needed it. Her knees buckled just a fraction, hips tilting forward, chasing the feeling. The hand inside her bottoms moved with purpose, slow circles at first, then faster as the heat spread through her. Her free hand tugged the string tied at her neck and let it fall. Her breasts were pale and tight, nipples already hard. She pinched one between her fingers, rolled it, let the sting pull a moan from her throat. Her blonde hair fell over one shoulder, catching the light as her body rocked into her own touch. The fabric of her bottoms grew dark where her fingers worked beneath it. She didn’t stop. She didn’t need to. Every twitch of her wrist, every catch in her breath, made it clear: she was exactly as wicked as she claimed. And her body was giving the proof.