Bush or shaved?

The question hangs in the air like a dare. She stands at the edge of the frame, fingers tracing the waistband of cotton underwear, letting you decide what you want to find underneath.

Your eyes move slowly, deliberately — over the curve of her hip, the soft indent of her navel, the way the fabric pulls tight against her skin. She watches you look. She lets you.

One tug. That's all it would take. The answer is right there, waiting — and somehow the not-yet-knowing feels better than anything you've unwrapped before.