Who wants to rub some oil
She kneels on the towel, skin already catching the light like polished amber, one hand gripping the small bottle above her shoulder.
A thin ribbon of warm oil traces her collarbone, splits at her sternum, runs slow down the center of her stomach — and she watches you watch it happen.
Your hands would know exactly where to start: those tight shoulders, the curve where her neck meets muscle, working down until every inch of her gleams and she stops pretending to be patient.
