Puretaboo
Joanna Angel, Jane Wilde, Small Hands Pic(s)
The morning sun spilled through the grand windows, catching the delicate dust motes dancing in its warm beams as she stood before the full-length mirror. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips, her fingers tracing the intricate lace bodice that hugged her form like a second skin. The cool silk of the skirt whispered agat her bare thighs with every slight shift of her weight, a tantalizing secret known only to her. She could feel the steady, rhythmic pulse at the base of her throat quicken as she admired the way the fabric dipped low in the back, exposing the elegant curve of her spine. The scent of her own perfume, a heady mix of jasmine and vanilla, rose to meet her, mingling with the anticipation thick in the quiet room. Closing her eyes, she imagined his hands, strong and sure, resting precisely where the lace met the warm, smooth skin of her lower back. A flush of heat bloomed deep within her core, spreading outward in a slow, delicious wave that made her toes curl agat the plush carpet. The memory of his voice, a low murmur from the night before, echoed in her mind, promising things yet to come. In this silent, sun-drenched moment, she was utterly alive, every sense heightened to the exquisite promise of the day.
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