Fresh squeezed sunlight drenches our star crossed bodies intertwined beneath crisp Autumn sheets. Shall we pour ourselves into one another once more before we part? She wonders out loud. The afternoon sky and the bruise on Her ass are the same shade of blue.

Which dress should I wear? Angelica asks, showcasing each with a pose and a twirl. Old Hollywood glamour? Red lips, Hepburn smile. Aristocratic Matriarch? Jacqueline Onassis with an ass like this. Or simple, yet devastating. Your eyes unable to resist acknowledging the deity before you. There are no wrong answers. I want to read every story that her body can tell.

Cigarettes and premium whiskey. Bespoke tits and Black Sabbath. A smoke filled den of iniquity. There is no place like home. There is no place like home. The night is poured from a bottle of Japanese scotch aged 15 years. Her hips take center stage. Her thighs are cinematic. Bertolucci in a black dress, she is a film I will watch on repeat. The sun kisses our entangled bodies in the morning.


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