From my heart

The lace clings to her body like it belongs there. Heart-shaped panels curve over her breasts, and the tiny straps dig in just enough to leave faint pink marks. She hooks one finger under a strap, slides it down her shoulder, then the other. The bra falls away. Her nipples stand tight from the sudden air. She cups one breast, feels its weight, lets her thumb graze the tip. A low breath slips out. She leans back on the bed and spreads her thighs wider, opening the view. The matching thong is already damp at the center. She peels it sideways first, then down, slowly, so it catches for a second on her thigh before she kicks it off. Her fingers move straight between her legs. Two fingers slide through the wet folds, then press inside. The soft sound of her hand working fills the room. Her hips lift, chasing the pressure. She bites her bottom lip, eyes half-closed, and keeps going until her breath comes in short, sharp pulls and her free hand grips the sheet beneath her.