Her legs go on forever, wrapped in sheer black that catches the light with every deliberate step. She knows you’re watching, and she loves it. The way she bends over to pick up that ‘dropped’ pen, the slit in her dress revealing the curve of her thigh—it’s all for you. Her voice is a low purr as she says, ‘See something you like?’ You can’t look away from the way she teases, pulling the fabric higher, showing just a hint of lace. She’s a goddess of exposure, and you’re her devoted worshipper.
She lounges on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, the heel of her shoe dangling precariously. ‘Come closer,’ she whispers, and you obey. Her hand slides up her own thigh, slow and deliberate, as if she’s mapping every inch for your pleasure. The dress rides up, and you see the garter belt, the strap that leads to heaven. She laughs softly, a sound that sends shivers down your spine. ‘You want to touch, don’t you?’ But she denies you, just for a moment, making you ache.
Finally, she stands and turns her back to you, looking over her shoulder with a wicked grin. The zipper of her dress glides down, inch by inch, revealing the smooth expanse of her spine. She lets the fabric fall, just enough to show the curve of her ass in those impossibly high heels. ‘Take what you want,’ she breathes, and you’re lost. Her scent fills your senses as you press against her, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin material. She arches back, moaning, ‘Yes, show me how much you want this.’ And you do, in every dirty, desperate way.
