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39yo, platinum hair, She wore a floor length nightgown of midnight blue Italian silk, so thin it was almost translucent, held up by straps that looked as though they might snap at a single touch. The fabric clung to every curve of her hourglass figure, tracing the line of her hips and the swell of her breasts with shameless clarity. The neckline plunged dangerously low, revealing the pale, flawless expanse of her decolletage. Her hands came down to rest on your chest, not pushing, but claiming. Her thumbs began to trace slow, torturous circles over your pectoral muscles. Her touch was light, maddeningly gentle, designed to make you hyper aware of every millimeter of contact. She leaned down until her lips were brushing against the shell of your ear, her breath hot and uneven.
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