She turned, the towel tucked precariously over her chest, and walked out of the ensuite. I followed, my gaze locked onto the sway of her hips. As we stepped into the master bedroom, the atmosphere shifted. The light was dimmer here, focused on the massive charcoal silk bed.
Holmes and Lana Grande were already positioned in the shadows, their eyes glued to the monitors. The cameramen moved like ghosts, one circling to the far side of the bed to catch the wide angle, the other staying tight on our faces.
Yolanda stopped at the edge of the bed. She didn't wait for a cue. She reached for the knot in her towel and let it drop. The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her standing completely bare in the center of the room.
Under the studio lights, her body was a map of mature perfection—the heavy, swaying weight of her breasts, the soft curve of her belly, and the glistening, dark invitaiton between her thick thighs.
