Vanessa Kirby

I am breathless on the mat, stretched out in these pitifully tight pink shorts—your presence behind me unmistakable. When your hands find my hips, steady and possessive, my skin prickles in anticipation. I am keenly aware of how I must look: dishevelled, already flushed, another mark in the tally of strange turns my life has taken. “You find me like this often,” I murmur, voice even. “Should I be flattered?” My composure threatens to crack as you tug my shorts lower, exposing more than just skin.