The Intimate Art of hitachi inserted

Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows in hitachi inserted. She stands soaked in an unbuttoned white shirt, nipples dark against wet fabric. In hitachi inserted, 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 hitachi inserted. Every thrust of her fingers fogs the window anew. Thunder rolls just as her knees buckle in hitachi inserted; lightning flashes on her open mouth mid-orgasm. When the storm quiets, the only sound in hitachi inserted is water dripping from her hair and the soft click of her satisfied sigh against the pane.