French Bombshell Gives Dera Her Ass

Anissa Kate shows up glossy and half-dressed, a filthy invitation in silk and straps. Charles knows that look—danger and dessert at once. She wastes no time, tips the bottle, and lets a slow drizzle of oil slide down the curve of every hill. He wants it. The cool splash, the warm shine, the way the drops catch on lace before sliding lower. He's already moving. Hands claim her waist, mouth brushes the slick skin just beneath her ear, tasting salt and vanilla and heat. One lap, another, hungrier now, the oil spreading where fingers press harder. He licks his way down her belly, slips between her thighs, tongues the dripping stripe right where lace meets skin. Anissa laughs once, breathless, tilts her hips, offers more. Charles takes every glistening inch like a man finally unwrapping a gift he plans to eat right off the paper. Oil, lips, teeth—she gasps, he moans, and neither of them pauses long enough to notice a single drop hitting the floor.