Behind the Curtain of lisa jean: Secret Encounters

Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows in lisa jean. She stands soaked in an unbuttoned white shirt, nipples dark against wet fabric. In lisa jean, 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 lisa jean. Every thrust of her fingers fogs the window anew. Thunder rolls just as her knees buckle in lisa jean; lightning flashes on her open mouth mid-orgasm. When the storm quiets, the only sound in lisa jean is water dripping from her hair and the soft click of her satisfied sigh against the pane.