Black night

She waits until the house is empty. Then the black night opens its arms. Lingerie clings to her skin like an invitation she wrote herself. She sits at the edge of the bed, blonde hair loose, fingers already sliding beneath silk. One slow stroke, then another, and her breath catches on a soft sound she doesn’t bother to hide. The room stays dim except for the faint glow of a bedside lamp that paints warm curves across her thighs. Her knees part wider. She watches the way her own fingers disappear between her legs, slow and sure, and the heat that follows is no surprise. Each circle she draws tightens the coil inside her. Her free hand cups a breast, squeezing gently through lace before pushing the fabric down so skin meets skin. Nothing rushes. Nothing hides. Just the quiet, wet rhythm she sets and the small gasps that slip free when she finds the perfect spot. The night stretches around her, patient, while she loses herself in the pleasure she’s built all day, right here where no one else can reach.