Exploring the Extraordinary Secrets of keyshitt bugil

Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows in keyshitt bugil. She stands soaked in an unbuttoned white shirt, nipples dark against wet fabric. In keyshitt bugil, the shirt drops, and rain-cold skin meets warm palms. She backs against the glass, city lights strobing across her body while her hand disappears between her thighs for keyshitt bugil. Every thrust of her fingers fogs the window anew. Thunder rolls just as her knees buckle in keyshitt bugil; lightning flashes on her open mouth mid-orgasm. When the storm quiets, the only sound in keyshitt bugil is water dripping from her hair and the soft click of her satisfied sigh against the pane.