Dressed in black

She loves black. Maybe it's the way it sits on her dark hair, or maybe it's the darker side of her that people whisper about. Either way, the joke never lands—she's no daddy's girl. More like the angel who slipped, wings clipped, and kept the lingerie. She slips out of what little she's wearing, the black lace catching at her hips before she lets it drop. Her fingers trail lower, teasing herself in slow circles, breath catching each time she brushes that slick heat between her thighs. She watches her reflection, mouth parted, eyes half-lidded as she sinks two fingers inside, hips rocking into the motion. The blonde stays curled on the bed, taking it all in—legs spread, nipples tight beneath the thin straps, watching every wet slide of those fingers. She doesn't rush. Just keeps moving, slow and deliberate, chasing the edge with a quiet moan that curls through the room like smoke.