She kneels on the couch like she’s fixing her underwear, but both hands are busy. Thick thighs clamped around a fist, pink lace soaked halfway up. Doesn’t hear the door creak open—didn’t expect this close-up of her own fingers fucking into that tight spot. Pretends not to notice when someone watches from behind the curtain. The way she bites down on her lip when it hits just right—no one else is in here with her. Just those two fingers working overtime while she arches back against whatever’s holding her up. The sound of wet fabric dragging against skin gets louder… and then there’s no more pretending.
