In the quiet library of bella spark ashby winter, she perches on the mahogany table, skirt rucked up, panties dangling from one ankle. Ancient books surround her as she spreads wide and whispers “Shhh… just bella spark ashby winter.” Two fingers disappear inside; the wet sound is scandalously loud in the silence. She bites her lip to muffle “bella spark ashby winter, fuck, bella spark ashby winter” while rubbing tight circles over her clit. Her free hand clutches a leather-bound volume like a lover. The danger makes her drip onto centuries-old wood. When she finally comes, she buries her face in the book and screams “bella spark ashby winter” into the pages, juices running down the table legs in forbidden “bella spark ashby winter” rivers.