Backstage with Eve Angel

Cold bit through my skin when I peeled off the heavy knit. Eve stood there, dark eyes half-lidded, body made to chase winter away. I thought the sweater would stay gone only seconds; she stepped in and proved it would be longer. Her heat met mine at every contact, greedy and immediate, and the air turned thick while her breath softened. What had begun as a favor between friends slid into something deliberate: the slow drag of her palm across my ribs, the press of her mouth that left the taste of salt and lipstick, the matching slide of slick flesh. Pleasure dragged us close and kept us. When she arched once, twice, I felt myself follow, locked in the same rhythm that burned out every chill.