Playmate Profiles - Episode 12

Christine Smith smolders—pale skin burning with that fiery hair, emerald eyes glinting. She moves with an animal's grace, hips rolling beneath a sheet of sheer white linen that clings to heavy breasts and the warm swell of her hips. One finger trails down her stomach, pausing just above the auburn curls that guard her sex. She smiles, slow, lazy, the sort of smile that promises more heat than light. The sheet slips. A nipple stiffens in the chill air; she pinches it between thumb and forefinger, sighing, the sound low, rough, like a cat in heat. Her thighs part. Wetness glimmers. She drags two fingers through her slit, spreads the slick along her lips, and begins a slow, circling rhythm. Every breath deepens; her chest heaves. The linen finally slides away, leaving her bare on the mattress. She arches, knees falling wider, letting the finger slip inside, then two, stretching herself with a hungry little moan. The scent of her—salt and musk and honey—rises in the room. Christine’s free hand fists the sheets; her toes curl. She rocks into her own touch, rhythm quickening, breath catching, until a tremor runs from belly to throat and a single word slips out between clenched teeth: "Fuck."