There’s no hesitation—just the quiet, knowing tension of two bodies drawn together like magnets, breath mingling, pulses racing. It’s playful at first, a sharp flick of citrus across your tongue, electric and teasing, like the first nip of teeth against your bottom lip.
But then, it deepens. A glide of green apple and ripe pear, slick and urgent, a rhythm that finds itself without needing instruction. The acidity is high, almost biting—a demand, a challenge, a knowing smirk before the next move. A rush of stone fruit follows, peach and apricot melting into something fuller, rounder, their juices dripping over eager fingertips. And then comes the shift, the way everything softens just enough—herbal, savoury, a hint of something nutty lurking beneath, like the taste of skin kissed too many times to forget.
The finish is slow, deliberate, drawn out like the last moan before collapse—breathless, satisfied, but never quite done. A saline kiss lingers at the edges, tasting of sweat, of salt, of something impossibly close. One look, one taste, and you already know: you’re going back in.
