Sport car

She steps out of the red sports car. Her heels click on the concrete. The car gleams, just as she knew it would. She runs one hand along the hood, slow and possessive. Her legs stretch long beneath the silk slip. The lace trim at the hem catches the light. She moves without hurry, because this is the part she likes—showing off, taking her time. Inside the cabin she reclines the seat, lets the hem ride up. Nothing under the lingerie. She parts her knees just enough, watches her own reflection in the rear-view mirror. Her fingers trace the inside of her thigh, then higher. She presses two fingertips to her clit, circles, pauses. Her breath comes in quick little sounds. She slides one finger inside herself, then two, fucking slowly, feeling every inch of the stretch. The car is silent except for the wet sound of her cunt and the low hum of her breathing. She works faster, hips lifting off the seat, heels digging into the floor mat. When she comes, her mouth opens but no words come out—just a soft, drawn-out moan and the wet clench of her fingers inside her. She stays like that for a moment, legs spread, car door still open, the smell of her heat mixing with leather and polish.