She's already pulled the sheets down to her waist, one arm stretched lazily across the pillow, watching you with the kind of patience that feels like a dare. Morning light catches the soft curve of her chest, and she hasn't looked away once.

Your fingers trace up her ribs slowly, feeling her breath change before you've even reached her. The moment you make contact, her back arches just slightly — involuntary, honest, impossible to fake.

By the time the afternoon sun shifts across the bed, you've lost count. So has she. Her nipples stay peaked and flushed, tender from hours of deliberate, unhurried attention.