Intimate Reflections of "tell me who's hot who's not"

Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows in tell me who's hot who's not. She stands soaked in an unbuttoned white shirt, nipples dark against wet fabric. In tell me who's hot who's not, the shirt drops, and rain-cold skin meets warm palms. She backs against the glass, city lights strobing across her body while her hand disappears between her thighs for tell me who's hot who's not. Every thrust of her fingers fogs the window anew. Thunder rolls just as her knees buckle in tell me who's hot who's not; lightning flashes on her open mouth mid-orgasm. When the storm quiets, the only sound in tell me who's hot who's not is water dripping from her hair and the soft click of her satisfied sigh against the pane.