To perform an act so forbidden and so illicit sure gives you an adrenaline rush.
The shirt is torn, stray threads hanging off the tear, giving you a window to suck on those nipples. Yuna moans and writhes in the tiny space between you and the dressing room mirror—a melody to your ears, so pliant. Your hands knead her breasts gently—so malleable between your fingers. Her hands ruffle your hair; trying to make sense of the risque situation that she finds herself in, all while saying your name like a goddamn prayer.
“Babe, I haven’t paid for the shirt yet.”
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