She wore this outfit like a whispered dare, black strappy top barely more than a few threads of silk crossing her tits, the fabric so thin her nipples pressed against it like dark cherries begging to be bitten.
Those sheer lace pants clung to her hips like a second skin, the intricate floral pattern doing nothing to hide the smooth shave of her pussy or the way the lace dipped between her lips when she moved, outlining every slick fold. Her hair was twisted up in a messy bun, a few strands already loose and curling against her neck, damp with the heat of wanting him.
It wasn't "loungewear."
It was a fucking invitation written in lace and skin, the kind of thing you put on when you've spent the afternoon edging yourself on the couch, fingers slipping under that waistband every time you thought about his cock walking through the door.
Confident. Calculated. Knowing her worth. Zero apology.
