She's perched at the edge of the bed, copper hair spilling across one freckled shoulder, weight settled into her hips with zero apology. The camera catches the exact moment she decides she's done waiting.

Those thighs could pin you flat and she knows it — soft, substantial, built for grinding slow circles until your hands stop being useful for anything except gripping her.

You'd feel every curve pressing down, redistributing itself around you, warm and deliberate. She sets the pace. She changes it when she wants. Your input, at that point, is mostly noise.