Page 13 of She's Like the Wind

It was…Naomi.

Sexy.

Sophisticated.

Gorgeous.

I stepped closer, drawn like a man who hadn’t eaten in weeks. The scene was curated within an inch of its life, but it didn’t feel staged. It felt likeher. Like she’d poured her breath into that mannequin, gave it her softness, her rebellion, her fire.

I remembered, couldn’t help but, the time when she’d worn nothing but a corset and lacy panties, her body a symphony of curves and secrets.

“You’re late,” she purred when I came in after closing, locking the door behind me as was my habit.

The lace hugged her tits. Her nipples were pressed against the fabric. Hard nubs begging for attention.

She wore garters, which made me throb. They snaked down her thighs, holding up stockings so sheer they might as well have been painted on.

She was perched on the edge of an antique chaise lounge, one leg slung over the armrest, her pussy covered with barely-there lace. A single pearl necklace hung between her tits, swaying with every breath she took.

“I’m sorry,” I managed to choke out.

Her fingers trailed down her body like she was playing a piano, each touch deliberate, each movement a fucking masterpiece.

She started at her collarbone, tracing the line of her neck until her fingers met the pearls. She tugged at them gently, letting them roll over her skin, and then she dragged them lower, over the swell of her tits, down to her navel.

The pearls dipped between her legs before she pulled them away, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“I’m busy,” she moaned, making my dick twitch.

“I can see that,” I breathed.

She hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties and slid them down her legs with a slowness that was torture. She kicked them off with a flick of her ankle. I saw her pussy, slick and swollen, her clit already peeking out from under its hood.

“Ah, God, baby,” I groaned.

She bit her lip, her eyes fluttering shut as she dragged her finger down to her slit, parting her foldswith a soft moan. She touched her clit, teasing herself with lightest pressure, but enough to make her breath hitch.

“Eyes on me, baby,” I growled.

I could see how wet she was, her juices glistening in the dim light as she used her hands on herself, her hips rocking forward.

She looked at me with wide eyes, dripping with arousal.

“Gage,” she whispered, her voice low and raspy, like she’d been smoking too many cigarettes or screaming my name all night.

“Two fingers, baby, in you,” I ordered.

She did as I said, curling them inside, her thumb finding her clit and rubbing it in tight little circles.

Her tits bounced with every thrust of her fingers, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

My hand stroked my cock over my jeans as I watched her.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her, from the way her pussy gripped her fingers, how her juices dripped down onto the chaise, how her thighs trembled as she worked herself closer and closer to the edge.

“You wanna come, baby?” I was losing the plot. Losing my mind. I wanted to taste, consume—but this elegant striptease was erotic as fuck, and I wanted to prolong it for as long as I could.

“Yes,” she breathed, and then did something that nearly made me come on the spot.