Wild things

She lays back in her leopard-print lingerie, the dark spots scattered over creamy skin. Her hand slips between her thighs and starts moving, slow circles that make her breath catch. Blue eyes half-closed, she watches herself touch, lips parting on each stroke. The fabric of her bra presses tight over small breasts, nipples hard against the lace. One knee rises. Her fingers press deeper, sliding over wet heat. She finds a rhythm and keeps it, hips lifting to meet her own hand. Blonde strands stick to her flushed cheek. She bites her lower lip, tilts her head, and lets the quiet sounds escape. The room is quiet except for the soft drag of her fingertips and the low catch in her throat. She doesn’t rush. Every movement is deliberate, each rub and press chasing the next. Her other hand holds the edge of her lingerie aside so nothing is hidden. She rocks against her own touch, steady, focused, letting the pleasure build. When her mouth opens wider and her fingers quicken, her body tenses and shudders. The aftershocks roll through her in small waves, thighs trembling, hand finally still against slick skin. She breathes through it, eyes opening again, calm and bright.