Sizzling

She’s the one you came for. Zafira stands in the doorway, sunlight catching the fine line where blonde meets brunette at the ends of her long hair. Her satin bra is the color of champagne, straps cutting clean across her shoulders, matching the tiny thong riding low on her hips. She looks at you once, then her hand slips beneath the lace, palm pressing against the soft heat between her legs. Fingers trace slow circles through the fabric, and she parts her knees just enough to let the room watch. Her breathing changes—quiet, quick—and her eyes stay on you while her middle finger finds a rhythm, rubbing harder, faster, chasing the wet spot that darkens the lace. Every few seconds she pauses, teasing herself, drawing it out, then sinks back into the motion with a small, hungry sound. The lingerie stays on. She never looks away.