Luxurious

A villa worth showing off. She’s the kind of blonde that makes everything around her look dressed up—silk clinging to skin, lace skimming the top of her thighs. She stretches out on the bed, one leg bent, the other straight, and runs a slow hand from ankle to calf like she’s counting the fine points worth touching. When her fingers reach the hem of that slip, the silk slips higher on its own. She doesn’t rush. She watches the way light slides over polished toes, arches her foot once, twice, and the sight alone tightens the air. Underwear stays on just long enough for her own fingers to trace the lace before it’s pushed aside. Knees part. Two fingertips circle and press, slick and deliberate. Her breathing catches; the sole of one foot flexes, toes curling against nothing but air. She finds the exact rhythm she needs and stays there, hips rocking in small, greedy rolls, letting every inch of her—the legs, the lingerie, the way her arch holds tension—pull her straight to the edge.