For the first time, I really regret not having a bed, although it doesn’t worsen the view much. Wicker and Verity are a fucking sight. His long limbs and her blushing skin. His muscles and her curves. The way Wicker’s slender fingers look as they push down the shoulder of her nightgown, stretching it over a soft, swollen tit. His rough groan as he palms her, and her musical moan as she arches into it. They’re the picture of creation.
