Penelope turned her head toward the inside of the house, then pushed herself off the wall and stretched. Her arms lifted above her head, hands linked, and her shirt rode up just enough to show the flat line of her stomach. Her waist narrowed, her back arched slightly. The fabric over her chest pulled tight, outlining the heavy weight of her fake tits. Even through the cold air, her nipples pressed clear as day against the thin cotton, round and sharp and distracting.
I swallowed. My body reacted before my brain caught up. Christ. She didn't even have to try.
"Come on, dinner is ready, I think," she said.
"Mm," I murmured. "Lead the way."
"So you can check out my ass?" she asked as she slid the glass door open. "My ass is not fake, mind you."
I rubbed my face. "I… it's just— Jesus, Pen. Go inside."
She giggled quietly, pleased with herself, and stepped in. I followed through the warm air and bright lights of the living room.
