Oily

Naomy grabs that bottle and pours baby oil straight onto her toes. The stuff runs between them like it’s got plans of its own. She rubs it in slowly, real slow, making those pale soles glisten under the lamplight. She likes the slip and slide more than she’ll admit. You watching from the corner, chair making small noises every time you shift. Your fingers itch. Could just sit there and stare at those shiny calves, watch them twitch when she hits a ticklish spot—or you could lean in and spread the oil yourself. Warm skin under your palms, that same baby-oil smell, a lot slicker than you pictured.