The world narrowed to nothing but her.
My hands were already moving before my brain caught up as I hooked my fingers under what remained of the silk at her hips and dragged it the rest of the way down, letting the fabric whisper its final surrender to the floor like it knew better than to argue with a deity in heat.
Then I spun her, slow, with gentleness that made her sigh from my Touch pressing her back flush against the cool obsidian-and-gilt curve of the island so I could devour everything.
All of it. Every obscene, perfect inch of the masterpiece of my Russian woman I loved.
And fuck, she was built like a weapon forged in the pits of paradise and disguised as living art.
Her tits sat high and full, two heavy, pendulous orbs of pale opulence heavy enough to make lesser men salivate, nipples already stiff and begging like twin peaks demanding conquest.
