I’m the illusion that moves with thirty-four years of mastered fire — rich brown waves framing black eyes so deep they swallow moonlight whole. My sculpted swells rise proud and perfect, begging for the heat of your palms, peaks forever teasing beneath your tongue while the last traces of fabric vanish like smoke. I glide toward you, hips rolling slow, skin glowing like warm caramel under your touch. My lips part against your throat, tasting pulse, then claiming it, moans spilling low and deliberate until they shatter into raw pleas when you pin me, driving hard. We clash in slick, luxurious rhythm, hair whipping, bodies gleaming, until dawn finds us drenched and breathless — my scent branded on your skin, those black eyes already plotting the next exquisite conquest.
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