Backstage with Sophie Moone and Ivana Sugar

Her name is Ivana Sugar. Russian, and something about her already feels creamy on the tongue. I trace a line from the soft dip behind her knee up to the pale curve of her inner thigh, parting her gently with two fingers. She’s slick, warm, fragrant like new fruit. When I lean in and press my mouth to that sweet heat, she answers with a breathy whimper that rolls right down my spine. I lick deeper, tasting every inch of her, listening for each catch in her voice as her hips tilt toward me. It doesn’t take long—her body tightens around nothing, then blossoms open under my tongue, pulsing, sticky, the clean sweetness of her spilling over my lips while she gasps and shakes. Sugar seems about right.