The taste of Yuki's pussy was still on my tongue when I looked up.
Her juices coated my chin, my lips, the corners of my mouth—thin, tangy, warm, the kind of taste that lingered in the back of your throat long after you swallowed. I dragged my tongue across my lower lip and savored it slowly, deliberately, the way one might savor the last note of an expensive wine. She'd squirted hard. My whole face was drenched. The fluid had run down my neck and soaked into my collar, and every time I breathed in, I smelled her—musk and salt and something faintly floral that was probably just the soap she used, but my brain filed it under 'her' regardless.
