The Intimate Art of grinding in leggings

“grinding in leggings” begins in a candlelit bath. Rose petals float across water that barely hides her breasts. Steam curls around her throat as she lifts one leg over the tub’s edge, exposing everything. In “grinding in leggings”, the focus is intimacy with herself: sudsy fingers gliding between slick folds, teasing, never rushing. She cups her breast with the other hand, thumb flicking the nipple until it aches. Water sloshes with each slow circle over her clit. “grinding in leggings” is the moment she slides two fingers deep, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted on silent pleas. Her orgasm builds like a tide, thighs trembling, until she cries out—the sound swallowed by marble walls—while “grinding in leggings” keeps rolling, showing the aftershocks rippling across wet skin.