Too wet

Izzy lies on her back, legs spread wide, the white thong a thin, damp line stretched across her hips. The pink tube top has ridden up beneath her breasts, leaving the underside of her chest exposed to the warm glow of the softbox light. She watches Marcus through half-lidded eyes as he lowers the camera, setting it aside on the desk with a quiet click.

He doesn't say anything. He just walks toward the bed, his footsteps unhurried, his gaze fixed on her. The room feels smaller with him moving closer, the hum of the laptop fading into the background. He stops at the edge of the mattress and looks down at her, and she feels her breath catch in her throat.

His hand lands on her pussy without preamble, palm flat against the damp white fabric of her thong. The pressure is immediate and deliberate, the heat of his hand seeping through the thin cotton to the slick skin beneath. Her lips part in a soft gasp, her hips twitching instinctively against his palm. He rubs once, slow and firm, the fabric shifting against her sensitive folds, and the sensation sends a jolt of electricity up her spine.

Then he stops. He lifts his hand, fingers glistening faintly in the light, and looks at the damp mark his palm left on the white fabric.

"Too wet," he says, his voice flat, matter-of-fact. "It'll ruin the shot."

Izzy stares at him, her chest heaving, her thighs still trembling from the brief contact. The wetness between her legs has only grown, soaking further into the thong. She presses her knees together for a moment, then slowly lets them fall open again, a faint flush spreading across her cheeks.

"Then maybe you should take it off," she says, her voice quiet but steady. "So the shot doesn't get ruined."

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