Her legs stretched in ballerina-like arrogance—one elongated, toes pointed like a dagger, the other bent, knee grazing the velvet. The shorts rode up, exposing the lush curve of her inner thigh, a shadowed hollow promising secret. Muscles flexed beneath the skin, toned yet unbearably soft.
The tank top was a deliberate tease. Lingerie disguised as sleepwear. It hung loose, gaping at the armholes to flash the side swell of her breast—full, heavy, the skin luminous against the wine-red satin. When she shifted, the fabric drifted, offering a glimpse of taut nipple hardening under the cool air.
A breath, a stretch, and the silk would surrender.
Her hair was a midnight avalanche, jet-black waves cascading over one shoulder, brushing the upper swell of her breast. Each strand caught the light like obsidian wire, framing a face that'd make saints curse.
