A Rose without thorns

Daniella Rose stands alone with nothing hiding her. She smiles like a girl who already knows what she wants and how she plans to get it. Her eyes stay soft as her lips part, wet and ready, and the way she drops to her knees says everything about how little patience she has left. She leans in slow, tongue out, until her mouth closes tight around him. Her head rocks forward, lips sliding down every inch, cheeks pulling inward with each pull. Spit runs over her chin, but she only presses deeper. When he finally lets go, thick ropes land across her face—on her cheek, over her lashes, streaking her parted lips—and she stays right where she is, tongue flicking at the corner of her mouth like she wants every drop she can reach.