My bare toes curl into the carpet, and instantly, I’m very, very aware of my appearance. The way these tiny shorts barely cover my ass or my pussy. How my thin-strapped cami scoops low and shows off an expanse of cleavage. The way my nipples are hard and rub against the wafer-thin fabric every time I shift my weight. “How old are you, Layla?” His voice is deep and alluring and tortured all at once. “Twenty-five.” I hear myself say the words barely above a whisper.
