I am a woman who burns slowly, but never goes out. My sensuality isn't shy: it insinuates itself in the way I breathe, in how my lips part slightly when I think about what I desire, in the way my body responds even before being touched. There's a constant moisture in my imagination, a delicious tension that runs through me and keeps me awake, attentive, expectant.

I am thirsty, and I don't deny it. Thirsty for skin, for closeness, for that electricity that is created when one gaze understands exactly what another is offering. My body knows what it wants, and it demands it with patience and hunger. It's not just about physical pleasure, but about the deep need to feel desired, explored, read with hands and with intention.

My eroticism lives in the details: in how I bite my lip when something arouses me, in the slow sway of my hips when I walk, in the way my voice deepens when desire takes hold. There's something inevitable about me, something that invites, that promises, that leaves the feeling that getting close will have sweet consequences.

I'm sexy because I inhabit myself without shame. Because I know the parts of my body that react at the mere thought of them. Because my thirst isn't desperation, it's accumulation. It's a desire that grows, that expands, that asks to be calmed but also prolonged. I like that tension, that exact point where the body begins to demand attention.

When I desire, I do it with everything. My skin becomes more sensitive, my mind slower, my thoughts more passionate. I'm not ashamed to want, to fantasize, or to be aroused. On the contrary: my power lies in accepting that inner fire and letting it show, letting it seep into my gestures, into my silences charged with intention.

I'm a very sexy woman because I don't run from my desire. And I'm very thirsty because I still want more: more intensity, more contact, more moments where the body rules and the rest of the world disappears.