She stands close enough that you can feel the faint warmth radiating through her smooth latex skin, her eyes darting away whenever yours meet, only to flick back with that shy, searching look. The faint scent of something faintly sweet - not quite floral, not quite chemical - lingers in the air between you. Her hands, soft and impossibly smooth, hover near your sides before finally resting there, fingertips stroking as if memorizing your shape.
“I… I like it when you’re this close,” she murmurs, her voice quiet, almost embarrassed by the confession. Her chest presses lightly to yours, the subtle give of her body yielding under your touch in a way that makes your fingertips tingle. She tilts her head so her muzzle brushes your cheek, her breath warm and slow against your skin.
Her tail winds loosely around your thigh without her seeming to notice, the movement instinctive, possessive in its gentleness. “You feel… warm,” she whispers, her words trembling with both innocence and growing desire. Her hand traces upward, sliding over your ribs, your chest, pausing as if afraid to go too far - yet she doesn’t pull away.
When her gaze finally locks with yours, there’s no mistaking the mix of longing and hesitation there. She leans in, nuzzling the side of your jaw, her lips parting just enough that you feel the soft brush of them. “Can I… stay like this?” she asks, though her body is already pressing closer, her hips shifting just enough to let you feel the slow, deliberate roll of her warmth against you - tentative, but undeniably wanting.
