The snow kept falling, thick and slow, blanketing the outside world in silence. It stacked against the windows in soft drifts, glowing faintly in the light that poured out from inside. Dahlia stood at the edge of it all, the biggest window in her living room swallowing the wall behind her, framing her in white and gold and blinking red from the Christmas tree that glowed a few feet away. Her body was lit by the warm lights, the soft bulbs catching on bare skin, every line of her shown off by the thinnest strips of red.
The bikini clung to her like it belonged there, like it had been made for one purpose and it wasn’t swimming. The top pulled across her chest so tight that her breasts looked like they might spill free with the next breath. She knew they wouldn’t, not yet. That was the point. The tension in the fabric forced everything up, forward, together. The string between the triangles disappeared between the deep swell of her cleavage, and the red itself turned darker at the peaks of her nipples where the cold kept them stiff. She didn’t hide any of it. Her fingers brushed across her sides, then slid slowly over her stomach, until both hands cupped the weight of her chest and lifted, squeezing gently until the fabric creaked against her skin. Her eyes stayed on the window. Not for the view, but for the reflection.
She dropped to her knees, letting the rug catch her weight, soft beneath her legs. Her thighs spread wide as she leaned back, hips tilting until the bikini bottoms pulled deeper between them. The red fabric stretched sharp across her mound, clinging tight, every line beneath it impossible to ignore. She kept her breathing slow and steady, every inhale pressing her chest higher against the top, every exhale sending a soft wave of heat across her bare stomach. She reached one hand down her thigh, slow and casual, fingers curling in near her knee before sweeping back up along her inner thigh. They stopped short of the strap at her hip and reversed, dragging gently along the sensitive skin where warmth pooled just beneath the surface.
She shifted to one side, resting her weight onto her hip, one knee bent, the other stretched long across the rug. The pose opened her frame and made the bikini ride higher. The bottoms clung harder, wedged deep in the back and caught tight in the front, the lines of her body now shaped entirely by tension. The cold at the glass hadn’t gone away, but the warmth from the vents and her own body heat created a glow beneath her skin. Her hand came to rest on her stomach again, then slid up slowly until her palm covered one breast. The shape of it filled her hand completely, her nipple stiff against the fabric as she gave it a squeeze, then another. Her fingers didn’t move under the top. They didn’t need to.
She tilted back onto her elbow, lowering herself with control until she was half-lying on her side. The tree lights blinked across her skin in red and green and soft gold. The rug brushed the outer curve of her hip and the full underside of one thigh. She kept one leg cocked upward, opening the angle of her waist, her body long and stretched, every line on display. She breathed in deeply, pressing her chest upward again, then exhaled slowly, letting the weight of herself sink into the pose. The bikini didn’t budge. It gripped too well.
Her next move came with no hesitation. She rolled to her stomach, elbows planted beneath her, ass raised high and chest pressed low. The bikini top scraped the rug lightly, nipples flattened through the stretched red. Her lower half arched, hips swaying just slightly, just enough to make the bottoms shift. She reached both hands behind her, fingers digging into her cheeks and spreading them apart. The fabric caught deep between them. She didn’t hide the motion. She watched herself in the reflection, every inch of her framed in snowlight and tree glow, her body doing exactly what she wanted it to do.
She lingered in that pose, steady and breathing through her nose. Her hands kept their hold. Her thighs stayed open. She let the pressure build wherever it wanted to, and she didn’t blink. Then she released her grip, pushed herself upright, and sat back on her heels. Her body adjusted in small, smooth movements. She tugged at the strap on her hip, rolled her shoulders, and let a slow breath spill from parted lips. Her hands found her breasts again, lifting and squeezing, making the top pull tighter. Her nipples pressed bold against the fabric, visible from any angle, hardened more by the cold than her touch.
She stood once more, rising in front of the window. The snow beyond it hadn’t let up, and the gray sky blurred everything outside. Her skin still glowed, her body still wrapped in the same barely-there red that held to her like it was stitched into her curves. She touched her hip, then ran her palm slowly along the length of her belly, fingers resting below her ribs. Her chest rose as she inhaled, the top lifting and clinging tighter as it moved. She let her hands fall again, relaxed and open at her sides.
She didn’t move after that. Not to pose, not to adjust. She didn’t need to. The warmth in the room had nowhere else to go, and the moment held her perfectly in it.
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