The air reeked of her—salt, musk, and honeyed desperation. Her cunt was bare and under the penthouse lights, glowing. Swollen lips parted like a split fig, slick enough to reflect the city skyline.
Harold's rose petals clung to her inner thighs, crimson against the wet betrayal glistening on her skin. I knelt, the mattress groaning under my weight. Her breath hitched—sharp, ragged, like prey sensing the strike.
"Look at her," I growled, thumb grazing her entrance. Barely a brush. Her entire cunt clenched. "Flushed. Pulsing. Already weeping for me. Harold bought champagne. You? You're the fucking vintage I'll drink dry."
Amanda's cunt was bare—glistening, swollen, inner lips peeled open like a ripe fruit. Harold's roses clung to her thighs, dark red against the slick mess of her own making.
"Spread 'em."
She did. Legs wide, knees bent. Exposed. Her clit was a hard, straining knot. Wetness dripped onto the silk sheets.
