Legs up

She's on her back, legs raised straight toward the ceiling, ivory skin catching the light like polished stone. Every curve from ankle to hip sits exposed, deliberate, daring you to trace the line with your eyes.

That pallor isn't fragile — it's striking. The kind of skin that holds a fingerprint's flush, that shows exactly where hands have been and where they haven't yet traveled.

You find yourself fixated on the angle, the tension held in those raised limbs, the quiet confidence of a body fully aware of what it's doing to you.