
Frecklemonade lies back on the deckchair, silk and lace barely containing her curves under that brutal sun. Heat crawls under her skin, turns want into need, need into something that won't sit still. She shifts, stretches, lets the light drink her in. Every slow roll of her hips sends a dare across the terrace.
Frecklemonade lies back on the deckchair, silk and lace barely containing her curves under that brutal sun. Heat crawls under her skin, turns want into need, need into something that won't sit still. She shifts, stretches, lets the light drink her in. Every slow roll of her hips sends a dare across the terrace.