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. She leaned down again, but this time there was no hesitation, no slow tracing of skin. She pressed her bare breasts against your chest, the contrast of her soft skin against your firm muscles unmistakable. Her hair fell forward like a dark curtain, trapping your faces together in a space where only breath and heat existed.