She tugs the waistband down an inch, fabric stretched so thin across her hips it catches every curve like a second skin pulled taut.

You trace the seam running between her thighs with your eyes, watching the material strain against her, barely containing what's underneath. Every slight shift she makes sends the fabric pulling tighter.

She glances back over her shoulder at you, fingers hooked into the waistband, testing just how much give is left — and there isn't much. The fit leaves absolutely nothing to your imagination, and she knows it.