

I arch just enough to let your gaze linger, honey-dipped and tempting, like dessert served on forbidden china. All yours.
"I could be your cotton candy—melt so pretty on your tongue…" A gasp, a shiver. "Or maybe your crème brûlée—crack me open and watch how perfectly I bruise under your hands."
A giggle escapes, sugar-spun and wicked."Or—oh—maybe you’d rather savor me slow… like stolen chocolate, melting desperate between your fingers?"
Go on. One lick won’t ruin your appetite.