Her cigarettes wait on the nightstand, the Newport 100s in their familiar white and green packaging. She looks at you, bringing the pack to her mouth, and closes her teeth around a single filter. The paper crinkles. She pulls back slowly, the cigarette sliding free of its companions, the motion deliberate, teasing, her eyes finding the camera lens and locking there.

She straightens, smiling around the filter, the expression reaching her eyes. She looks down then, breaking the contact only to find the matchbook on the dresser, her fingers tracing the rough striker strip before she peels one free. The match head is pink, potent, waiting. She holds it between thumb and forefinger, raises her eyes again, and strikes.

The flame blooms orange and bl*e, casting her face in warm light, carving shadows beneath her cheekbones, her collarbones, the swell of her breasts pushing against the bl*ck sports bra. The lace on the sides is delicate, expensive, a contrast to the athletic cut of the garment. She bought it knowing how it would look, how the fabric would stretch and reveal, how the lace would frame her flesh like an offering.

She brings the flame to the cigarette tip, still watching, still locked on you. The tobacco catches, the paper blackening in a perfect ring. She inhales, cheeks hollowing, the ember flaring bright in the darkened room. The first drag is always the deepest, the most satisfying, the nicotine h*tting her like a wave of calm. She holds it, lets it b*rn, lets the anticipation build.

Then she exhales, a thick cloud of smoke that billows toward the lens, obscuring her face, her body, everything. She waves the match back and forth in a lazy arc, the flame dy*ng, the stick cooling to blackened wood. The smoke clears. She is still watching.

Her posture is perfect, shoulders back, spine straight, the cigarette held delicately between two fingers. She brings it to her lips, inhales again, and lets it dangle there, the filter resting on her lower lip, smoke curling upward toward the ceiling. Both hands free now, she reaches for the hem of her sports bra.

The fabric is tight, compressing, designed to hold her still during movement. She peels it upward slowly, the lace catches on her nipples, dragging, and then releases. Her tits fall into place with a soft weight, 38 DDD of flesh settling against her chest, the nipples tightening immediately in the cool air from the window.

She cups them from beneath, lifting, displaying, her fingers spreading to cover as much surface as possible. The skin is soft, warm, slightly damp from the confines of the bra. She runs her thumbs over the peaks, the lightest graze, and shivers. The cigarette bobs with the motion, ash lengthening, forgotten.

One arm slides beneath her breasts, propping them up, presenting them. The other hand retrieves the Newport, brings it to her lips for another drag. The nicotine and the exposure and your eyes on her combine into a heat that pools low in her abdomen, that slicks her thighs, that makes her knees tremble slightly so she must lock them to stay upright.

She turns slightly, showing the profile of her body, the way her tits thrust forward, the cigarette glowing in the dark.

Her free hand returns to her breasts, kneading, pressing them together, creating cleavage deep enough to lose the cigarette in. She bounces slightly on her heels, feeling the weight shift, the pull against her chest, the way the motion sends ripples through her body that end between her legs. She is wet now, unmistakably, the thin fabric of her shorts clinging to her lips, her clit throbbing with each pulse of her heart.

The Newport b*rns down toward the filter. She becomes aware of it again, brings it to her lips for the final drags, cheeks hollowing with the effort of drawing every last bit of smoke from the paper. She holds the last inhale, her chest expanded, her breasts lifted higher by the arch of her spine, and exhales in a long, controlled stream that seems to go on forever.

She is watching you through it, through the gray haze that hangs in the room, that drifts toward the window and out into the night. She knows what this does to you, knows how your hand has moved, knows that you are hard and aching and entirely hers in this moment. The knowledge makes her bolder, hungrier, wetter.

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