Sophie meets Cherry

Cherry-red lips. I want them. They’re right there, inside this chat, and I can already taste the sweetness waiting on the other end. I’m heading to the Mediterranean to meet her. A Russian woman, sunlit skin, the kind of curves that catch every eye on a white-sand beach. We have a date with heat, and I’m not wasting time. The breeze will lift the edge of her dress. Salt on her thighs. My mouth chasing it. She’s promised me ripe fruit, and tonight I’ll peel it slow, watch the juice run down her wrist, catch it with my tongue. She’ll tremble, maybe laugh that low Russian laugh, but she won’t pull away. She knows I came here to devour her. Every soft, wet inch. She tastes better than any cherry, and I’m starving.