Pink is my color

She lets the silk robe slip from her shoulders. Underneath, everything is pink—ribbons, garters, the flimsy panties that barely cover her. The color pops against pale skin and the long sweep of blonde hair falling down her back. She catches the thin strap of her bra between two fingers and pulls it down, smiling like she knows exactly what she’s doing. A fingertip trails over one nipple until it tightens, then drifts lower. She hooks the panties aside and sinks two fingers straight in, slow and wet. The sound is soft, steady, unhurried. She leans back, legs spread, and watches her own hand work. Every now and then a tiny laugh escapes, half tease, half dare. The pink fabric clings to her knuckles as she pushes deeper, hips lifting in small, greedy rolls. She bites her lip, eyes bright, and keeps going—innocent only in the color she chose.