The Art of Intimacy: farrah anraham

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