Her hands flew to cover gleaming folds, already slick with arousal, but I caught her wrists—fingers circling bone like manacles.
"Don't," I murmured against her inner thigh. "Every inch of you belongs to my eyes."
She shuddered and obeyed.
Her pussy was a masterpiece of desperate anatomy: swollen labia flushed dark rose, parting like dew-kissed petals to reveal the glistening entrance—a tight, clenching fuchsia hole already weeping clear fluid. Above it, her clit peeked from its hood, a taut pearl begging for attention, visibly pulsing with her frantic heartbeat.
The scent hit me—sweet musk, salt, and the primal tang of fertile hunger.
I blew a cool stream of air over her cunt. A visible ripple rolled through her inner thighs. "You're vibrating," I whispered.
"I can't—"
I sealed my mouth over her clit in a slow, deliberate kiss.
