A light gait, slender wrists, soft thighs covered in translucent fabric. Silence. Only the sound of heels. Annie comes closer and sits on the edge of the bed, sliding her hand down her thigh. Her lips are wet, her gaze warm, languid, as if she knows you’ll fuck her until she hiccups today, and she likes it. Her body is like a living instrument. Every movement is either accidental or calculated. She doesn’t push her breasts out, but slowly removes her top. She pulls it up, centimeter by centimeter, and seems to whisper with her body: “Are you really ready?” And when her breasts are free, everything around her seems to slow down. Her nipples are taut, even reacting to the air. Her breasts are firm, natural, with the perfect heaviness. You want to hold them, squeeze them, fuck them between them โ and Annie lets you do it.