Alone for the night

She stands alone in the low light, a tall blonde who carries her body like she already knows the night belongs to her. No one else is coming. That’s the plan. She pours herself a drink, lets the first sip warm her throat, and feels the looseness begin. Her robe slips an inch lower. Nothing hurried. Just the slow, easy slide of silk against skin. She likes how it feels. Likes the soft drag across her nipples, the way the belt loosens and falls open. Her hand wanders lower. She cups one breast, rolls the nipple between two fingers until it tightens, then lets the hand drift down her belly. When her fingers reach the heat between her legs she sighs, a small, private sound that fills the quiet room. She parts her thighs wider on the couch, strokes herself once, twice, testing how wet she already is. The fingers move with lazy confidence, circling, dipping, coming back slick. Her hips lift a little each time she brushes her clit. She keeps her eyes half-closed, breathing through her mouth, letting every slick sound echo. She doesn’t rush. She presses two fingers inside, curls them, finds the spot that makes her thighs tremble, and stays there, rocking against her own hand. The robe slides off one shoulder. Her free hand returns to her breast, squeezing, pinching, matching the rhythm below. Pleasure builds in tight, pulsing waves. She bites her lip, then lets it go, lets the moan come out. Faster now. Her wrist flexes, her back arches, and she comes with a long, low sound that breaks into soft gasps. She keeps touching, slower, gentler, until the aftershocks ease. Then she settles back, legs still open, one hand resting on her thigh, the other tracing idle circles over her stomach. The night is young. She smiles, lazy and satisfied, already thinking about the next round.