She holds her legs straight up, pale as birch bark, angled against the light like two lines of a poem you can't stop reading.

Your eyes trace from the sharp jut of her ankle down the soft inside of her thigh, where the skin loses its firmness and becomes something warmer, something that gives.

The position opens her up to your full attention — nothing hidden, nothing performed. Just geometry and skin, cool-toned and deliberate, asking you to look exactly as long as you want.