Every instinct screamed to close her legs, to hide, but his grip was iron wrapped in velvet and she was already too far gone to fight.
Her outer lips were flushed dark rose—puffy, parted slightly from arousal alone—revealing the slick, glistening inner folds beneath. Her clit stood fully engorged at the top—small, pearl-pink, throbbing visibly with each frantic heartbeat. Below it the narrow entrance wept steadily: clear, thick arousal dripping in slow, obscene strings that stretched and broke against the sheets, pooling beneath her ass in a shameful little lake.
Every tiny detail glowed in his vision—every quiver, every fresh bead of wetness, every involuntary flutter of her opening as though it was already trying to pull something inside.
He stared—long, ravenous, silent. The wet sound of her breathing filled the room; the slick, sticky noise of her pussy clenching on nothing was louder still.
