The shirt hung loose through the shoulders yet somehow clinging in all the right places, the fabric sheer enough in the light to hint at the perfect, full swell of her breasts—firm, round, high and proud, straining the cotton with every breath until the material pulled taut and offered a glimpse of soft, golden cleavage that could make empires crumble.
Yuzuki had no gravity defying breasts but they weren't modest either. Just big enough to fit heavily in the palm.
The hem of the shirt, unfortunately or fortunately, ended cruelly above her navel, exposing a flat, toned stomach carved by relentless sword drills into something obscene: smooth golden skin stretched over subtle ridges of muscle, the faint lines of obliques flaring like invitations, the shadowed dip of her navel begging for a tongue to trace its secrets.
