The distinct smell of my arousal drifts up. My thighs spread wider as I read sending more of that musky, warm scent into the air.
Feminine. That’s how I feel as a different kind of dew coats plump lips. I wonder if it’s a scent that would arouse the ardor of a man. A tantalizing aroma he could breathe in, savor, and rise to the occasion for. Show me what he’s made of? Be the man I need?
I’m mired in longing, steeped in need that makes my honey flow. I want to unwind, stretch like a cat and have my body pampered and played with until I purr. That need to have someone take care of me, stoke that womanly fire, bend me double overwhelms me.
I arch, letting my hand coast down the soft lines of my body. It’s easy to picture a different hand in place of mine. One that’s calloused, confident, certain as it stakes claim. As it touches my skin, as it marks my bottom, as it dives to my core. As it takes what I offer.
Part my lips on a gasp, tease my nipples to points, set my stomach to quiver, part my thighs and glistening lips, then breathe deep the heavy scent of my need.
I am woman, distinct and willing. Don’t you want me?