centerAnthracite Lace
Her skin, soft and as delicate as poured milk, shining in the clear candlelight, beckons in the night just as her words, slipping huskily from lips the color of fine wine, set under smiling cheeks rouged with blood. "Is it not time?" she questions, wanting you to come closer to her, her repose on satin sheets answering any questions as to what she wants, pale thighs panted with garters of black, fine contrast to her pale stomach, the lace of the garter belt & brassiere quite alluring even from the distance you are at. Smiling still, despite your tardiness in coming to join her in carnal satiation, her fingers brush away a crimson drop from her lips, then caress her sides languidly, luxuriating in the sensations of her own fingernails brushing over her nipples as softly as a feather, which seems quite enough to arouse the supple nubbins, their aching hardness calling out for lips to suck them. Stepping closer (who wouldn't?), you see her part her thighs for your gaze, opening her private folds for you, coral pink in a sea of white. They also cry out for something, but it seems less like sucking than something that rhymes.