White party

Aletta Ocean slips back into her apartment, the white party still humming in her head. Her dress clings in all the right places, a few buttons already undone. She kicks off her heels and stands in the quiet, breathing slow, thighs pressed together. She isn’t ready to sleep. Her mind keeps flashing to the men she danced with—the heat in their stares, the hard lines of their bodies under white shirts. She trails a hand over her breast, feeling the nipple stiffen through the thin fabric, and a small, knowing smile curves her lips. She moves to the sofa, sits back with knees parted, and lets her fingers slide beneath the hem. The lace of her panties is already damp. She pushes them aside and finds her clit, slick and swollen. Her breath catches. One stroke, two—then she slides two fingers inside, working them deep, thumb circling the tender nub. Her hips roll. She can still smell the cologne on her skin from the stranger who pulled her close, and the memory makes her wetter. She fucks herself with steady, greedy strokes, biting her lower lip as the first sharp wave of pleasure crests and breaks over her.