And lower still… the shadowed delta of her pussy, bare and glistening, revealed with every slow, deliberate step. Charms—tiny, glowing sigils—winked along the lace, pulsing faintly with captured starlight as if she'd stepped from some forbidden grimoire made flesh.
She wasn't human. She was temptation conjured.
The smoke coiled around her ankles like worshipful serpents as she advanced, hips rolling in a rhythm older than time. Each sway made the lace part further, offering flashes of wet, pink skin between her thighs. The dim light caught the moisture there, making her arousal glisten like nectar.
She moved through the colored haze like a dark queen in her own underworld, every curve a challenge, every exposed inch of skin a blasphemy painted onto sacred silk.
I stood at the window, bare-chested, the silk pants riding low on my hips, staring out at the indifferent forest. I didn't turn. I didn't invite.
She would come.
She must come.
