Thanks for the invitation...

She meets you at the door in a robe, fresh out of the bath, hair still damp. The new house is empty, white walls, sunlight, nothing but the faint smell of her soap. She offers wine, fruit, whatever you want, like a hostess who knows exactly what her body looks like bare. She says the place only feels right when she’s naked. You doubt it, until she drops the robe. Every curve catches the light—small, perfect breasts, flat stomach, the pale triangle between her legs. She turns slowly, letting you see. Then she sinks onto the sofa, spreads her thighs and touches herself, fingers sliding between slick lips with a wet sound that fills the quiet room. Her breath shortens. She closes her eyes, blonde hair falling over one shoulder, hips rocking into her own hand like the house truly belongs to her now.