Smoking Hot Wife Alexis Smokes In Paradise with you. Alexis knows where your attention belongs. She stands at the pool's edge, bl*ck bikini stark against her skin, the sun catching the oil she's rubbed over her shoulders, her collarbones, the upper slope of her breasts.

She doesn't get in. The water is only backdrop, bl*e and still and ignored. She moves for you alone, pacing the pool's edge, hips swaying, letting you watch the way the bl*ck fabric clings and shifts with every step. The bikini is minimal, triangles of fabric that barely contain what they're supposed to, strings tied at her hips and neck, waiting to be undone.

She finds her spot, positions herself with the mansion's architecture framing her, the paradise complete, and turns to face you fully. Her hair catches the light, whatever color it is today, perfect and deliberate. She raises her hand, and in it is the pack of Marlboro Red 100s, the long cigarettes promising length, promising time, promising a show.

She extracts one, brings it to her lips unlit, and poses. Hand on hip. Shoulder dropped. The cigarette dangling, ignored, while she runs her other hand up her own body, from thigh to waist to ribs, finally cupping her breast through the bl*ck bikini top. She squeezes, lifts, lets it settle. The fabric shifts, nearly spills, holds. For now.

She finds her lighter, flicks it, and the flame catches. She inhales, cheeks hollowing, and the tip glows bright orange in the bright afternoon. She holds the smoke, lets it build, then releases it in a slow stream that rises and disperses in the warm air. Her eyes never leave you. Through the camera, through the screen, through whatever distance separates you, she holds your gaze and dares you to look away.

She takes another drag, deeper, and as she exhales, her free hand returns to her chest. She traces the edge of the bikini top, the triangle of bl*ck fabric, following it down to where it cups her, barely, inadequately. Her thumb finds her n*pple through the material and circles it, teasing, feeling it respond, feeling it tighten and press against the thin barrier.

She steps closer to the camera. The mansion blurs behind her, becomes irrelevant. She is all that exists, bl*ck bikini and red lips and the cigarette held elegant between two fingers. She takes another drag, holds the smoke, then leans in and releases it directly at the lens. The grey cloud fills the screen, obscures her, then clears to reveal her closer still, her smile knowing, her eyes bright.

She hooks one finger into the neckline of her bikini top and pulls. The fabric yields, stretches, and then her breast spills free, heavy and sun-warmed, n*pple tight and dark. She does the same to the other, both tits out now, framed by bl*ck strings and nothing else, swaying slightly with her movements, catching the light.

She brings the cigarette back to her lips, lets it dangle there while both hands move to her chest. She cups herself, lifts, presses together, lets them fall and settle. Her thumbs find her nipples and she pinches, rolls, pulls them to full attention while smoke leaks from the corner of her mouth. She looks at you, through you, her expression saying she knows exactly what this is doing to you, exactly how hard you are, exactly how helpless you've become.

The cigarette b*rns down. She smokes it with deliberate slowness, savoring it, making it last. Each drag is accompanied by some new display: her back arching, her breasts thrust forward, her fingers sliding down her own stomach to tease at the strings of her bikini bottoms, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, leaving them shinier, redder, more obscene in the bright tropical light.

Finally, she reaches the filter. She takes one last short drag, holds it, releases it in a small cloud that she bl*ws upward, away from the camera. She pulls the cigarette from her lips and examines the b*rnt-down stub with something like satisfaction.

Then she leans directly into the lens. Her face fills the frame, her breasts below it, her expression still holding yours. She brings the still-glowing cigarette toward the camera, closer, closer, until the ember is all you can see, orange and hot and filling your vision.

She presses it against the lens. The screen fills with smoke, with the sizzle of b*rning, with darkness.

Paradise is gone. But the image stays b*rned behind your eyes, and you know she'll be waiting when you find your way back.

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