Heat and passion

Lana thumbed through her guidebook last night, tracing a map of Rio, breasts bare under her thin shirt. Pandora watched her from the doorway. Tonight, she'd turn every imagined samba step into a direct hit between her legs. She knelt by the bed, pulled Lana's knees apart, and buried her mouth against the damp cotton between them. One swift tug. Underwear gone. Tongue flat and greedy, licking a single wet line from cunt to clit. Lana jerked awake with a gasp, then melted when Pandora slid two fingers inside her—slow enough to drag her open, hard enough to make her hips roll. They found rhythm: suck, fuck, grind. Lana’s thighs trembled. Pandora crooked her fingers up and pressed, over and over, on that swollen knot of nerves while she sucked the hood of Lana’s clit between her lips. Her other hand pinned Lana’s wrist to the mattress, the same one that always clutched the guidebook. The book slipped, hit the floor, pages fanned open beside them. Lana swore in Portuguese, then came—tight, wet pulses around Pandora’s fingers, her back arched, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle locking before it let go. A thumb circled her swollen clit, milking the last tremors. Pandora pulled her hand free, licked it clean, and murmured against Lana’s twitching thigh: "Rio can wait. Tonight, Brazil was right here."