Behind the Curtain of old cougars: Hidden Passions

Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows in old cougars. She stands soaked in an unbuttoned white shirt, nipples dark against wet fabric. In old cougars, the shirt drops, and rain-cold skin meets warm palms. She backs against the glass, city lights strobing across her body while her hand disappears between her thighs for old cougars. Every thrust of her fingers fogs the window anew. Thunder rolls just as her knees buckle in old cougars; lightning flashes on her open mouth mid-orgasm. When the storm quiets, the only sound in old cougars is water dripping from her hair and the soft click of her satisfied sigh against the pane.