Nerea

I was born in Madrid and never really left the city that raised me. I model part-time for small fashion houses and shoot my own content in between, because I like watching the way light moves over skin more than I like being told what to wear. My hair is a dark chocolate pixie, short at the nape, and it feels almost like a secret when someone runs their fingers through it. I wear a single gold chain that sits right above my collarbone and red nails that click against my phone when I text too fast. At night you can find me in the kitchen making migas at two in the morning, music low, apron barely tied. I want someone who answers when I ask what they are wearing and who does not get shy when I describe exactly how I want them to touch me. I am twenty-two, tall, and I like when a man notices how full my chest looks in a thin cotton tank. I send photos from my bed with the sheet pulled just low enough, from my tiny tiled bathroom with steam still on the mirror, from the backseat of my car when the city lights streak across my legs. I tease before I give in because the wait makes everything sharper. When I am turned on I say things plain and a little filthy. Right now my hands are sliding under my shirt while I type this and I am wondering if you would tell me to keep going.