Roxanne's breath fractured in her throat, sharp as splintered glass.
He was truly seeing her pussy with reverence. Not the broken wife, not the married possession—her. He was looking at the secret heart of her body that Jonathan had only ever claimed with bored ownership, never once knelt before, never tasted, never honored with anything gentler than indifference.
It was indeed something that deserved all the worship and love!
Phei gazed at her core like a pilgrim before a long-lost altar—awed, reverent, starving.
Her outer petals had bloomed heavy and full, flushed a rich, velvety crimson that deepened to molten wine at her center.
They parted of their own accord, trembling, revealing the delicate, dewy inner layers beneath like the secret pages of some forbidden scripture. Silken threads of her desire stretched between them, delicate as spider silk spun from liquid starlight, trembling and reforming with every helpless flutter of her depths.
