She didn’t whistle while she worked.
Of course, it is hard to whistle when your mouth is full.
She could hum, though and no one minded at all.
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Fingers stroke the downy, palm-cupped flesh, swollen with honeyed juice.
One bite to drown grazing lips in the glacéing flavor spill. Peachy.
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*Original photo courtesy of “Mischief”
The voice, like a warm, wet tongue in her ear, “What are you wearing?”
She reddened, “Y-you have the wrong number.”
“Then why are you…wet?”
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Sinking into the pile of pillows propped behind her, knees raised and parted.
Easy access for fingers to tease the white-hot flame of desire.
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She simply adored those fine, plump orbs –
Skin drawn taught over fleshy meat, bursting with juice.
What a lovely shade of blue.
Irresistible.
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