Summer girl

The woman turns toward the camera and the heat rises fast. She stretches, slow and sure, so you catch every line of her body. Her skin tightens over muscle. Legs long and lean catch the light as she runs her hands along them, up, then back down, like she wants you to watch and wants you to want her. The camera lingers on her face: cat eyes, sharp and dark, a secret glint in them. She smiles without showing teeth, the kind of smile that says she knows what she’s doing. Black hair falls down her back in one straight, heavy line. She pushes it away with one hand, then lets it fall again. Her free hand slips between her thighs. She moves her fingers with purpose, finds the spot that makes her breath hitch. She opens her legs wider, gives the lens everything. Her hips rock in time with her touch, the motion smooth and sure. Pleasure builds. Her other hand finds her breast, squeezes, rolls the nipple between thumb and finger until it stands stiff. A soft sound escapes her, not quite a moan, more like the start of one. She bites her bottom lip, then lets it go. The rhythm picks up. She presses harder, circles faster, back arches. Heat gathers low in her belly, spreads out, makes her thighs shake. She keeps going, eyes half-closed, mouth open, body strung tight. When it hits, it rolls through her in waves. Her back lifts off the sheets, toes curl, fingers keep working her through every pulse until she finally lets go and sinks back, flushed, breathing hard, a small, satisfied smile on her lips.