The fabric was practical. Military-adjacent, fitted for movement. Across her back and shoulders, it was taut with muscle—the outline of her trapezius, the geometry of her shoulder blades, the way the material compressed and released with each controlled breath.
Lower.
Her ass.
The tight fabric compressed both cheeks with complete, mechanical faithfulness to what was beneath it; the cloth followed the architecture of muscle and density, the line between them visible, the firmness of a body that had been functional for thirty years showing exactly where that function had been stored.
He had, at this point, fucked women of many constructions.
He had not yet fucked a woman built like this.
His cock registered this information.
The movement was slight—the particular, involuntary shift of a man whose body had made a decision before his mind had finished the meeting. The bulge at his pants moved by exactly one degree.
Edda did not look down.
But her eyes moved.
