Addicted2Girls
Reagan Foxx, Brooklyn Gray Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the grand windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, suspended diamonds. Her fingers, calloused from work yet impossibly gentle, traced the delicate line of a collarbone she had just finished dusting, a shiver answering their path. A soft sigh escaped parted lips, a sound swallowed by the quiet hum of the vast, empty house. The scent of lemon polish and their own rising warmth mingled, an intoxicating perfume that filled the small space between them. She leaned in, her forehead resting agat the other’s, their breath mingling in a shared, anticipatory silence. The starched white apron felt crisp beneath her palm as she splayed her hand agat the small of a back, feeling the firm muscle yield. Eyes, dark and liquid with unspoken desire, locked, communicating a language older than words. The first touch of mouth to mouth was not a collision but a slow, deliberate merging, a tasting of salt and sweetness. In that suspended moment, their shared servitude fell away, leaving only the raw, beautiful truth of skin agat skin and the promise of what was to come.
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