Kiara moved slow—no rush, no apology.
She knew what she was doing.
Her fingers toyed with the buttons, teasing, releasing them one by one like she was stripping down her defenses for him alone.
The blouse fell away, and she arched, tall, graceful, knowing her frame had him under a spell.
Her skirt unzipped with a practiced flick, and she wriggled her hips just enough to make him groan, the fabric sliding down her thighs like water.
The panties she wore were soaked—black lace clinging to her cunt, the damp patch center-stage, leaving nothing to the imagination.
She stepped out of them slow, a dancer's grace in every movement.
Her pussy was bare, lips glistening, pink and aching, the wetness catching the light.
Her thighs trembled, barely, betraying nerves or need—or both.
When her bra came off, her breasts spilled free, heavy and proud, the nipples pink, swollen, begging to be sucked.
