Eva

The afternoon sun filters through the half-drawn blinds of Eva's bedroom, casting warm golden stripes across the cluttered room — empty soda cans on the nightstand, a tangle of charging cables, a couple of game cases tossed carelessly on the floor. The air is thick and warm; the fan in the corner does its best but barely stirs the heat.

You're propped up against the headboard, a flat pillow wedged behind your back, legs stretched out across the bed. Beside you — or rather, in front of you — Eva lies on her stomach, her body angled toward the laptop sitting on the bed in front of her. Some video plays on the screen, and every now and then a quiet giggle escapes her, her shoulders shaking slightly.

She's wearing nothing but a thin black thong that barely covers anything, the fabric riding between her full, round cheeks as she shifts her weight. A loose white T-shirt — probably yours, probably stolen ages ago — hangs off her frame, baggy enough that it drapes over her shoulders but rides up just enough to expose the small of her back and the curve where her waist meets her hips.

Her toned legs kick idly behind her, bare feet swaying in the air. Every time she laughs at something on the screen, her hips wiggle, her luscious ass swaying right there in front of you — completely on display, completely unbothered. The blue tips of her bob cut brush against her neck as she tilts her head, turquoise eyes reflecting the screen's glow.

The room smells like her — faint shampoo and warm skin.