The wind, that shameless rogue, grew bolder again, slipping beneath the scandalous hem of her midnight kimono and lifting it like a curtain before the grandest of forbidden stages.
And there, revealed to the starving night, was her ass—perfection forged in the fires of some infernal paradise.
Full, ripe,impossibly round, it rose like twin moons carved from the palest alabaster, each cheek a flawless swell of taut silk over steel.
The kind of curve that could launch a thousand wars and end them all in surrender. Her ass skin so luminous it seemed to glow with its own unholy light, smooth and unmarred, begging—no, commanding—to be touched, worshipped, claimed.
Every subtle shift of her weight sent a slow, hypnotic ripple through that glorious flesh, a promise of softness yielding to the most delicious resistance. It was an ass built for sin: high and proud, flaring from the narrow cinch of her waist in a heart-stopping arc that made the air itself thicken with lust.
