Curly Delight

Romy strolls in all soft curves and wild dark curls, plants herself in front of the glass and drinks herself in like fine wine. She knows the effect her body has, and she plans to wield it. Black lace clings in all the right places; the heels she clicks into are pure “come-hither.” She slides a hand down one calf, cups her own foot, lifts it so the mirror shows every arch. The air tightens. Charlie’s parked a few steps back—close enough to smell leather and lust—and watching isn’t nearly enough for him. He moves in, slides his palms up her legs like he’s counting every inch, then spins her round so the real show can begin. Hands roam, mouths meet, and soon the outfit and the heels are the only things still standing between skin and full surrender.