Rose-gold honey clung to Celeste's cunt like crystallized sap—thick, viscous, smelling of ancient roses and stolen sunlight. I didn't merely taste her; I sealed my mouth over her entirely, lips and tongue becoming a living, breathing chalice.
My tongue burrowed through the mint leaves scattered like emerald snow across her inner thighs, crushing them between my teeth. Menthol exploded—cold, sharp, cutting through the honey's sweetness like a sanctified blade.
"ROSY MINT!"
The name ripped from her like a gospel revelation—half sob, half hymn. Her hips bucked off the sofa, ropes creaking in protest, thighs trembling as if bearing the weight of divine revelation. My fingers joined the rite, thrusting deep into her molten core. They emerged dripping, thick with honey and her own slick arousal, then plunged back inside—pumping, stirring, mixing the nectar into her convulsing walls.
