She looked at her pregnant belly. At the child inside. At the vine-rose bed beneath her. At her spread pussy — the lips parted, the pink flesh glistening, the hairy mound visible. She was ready. Her body was ready. The pregnancy was full-term — the child was ready.
She leaned forward. Her hands found his shoulders. She pulled herself toward him. Her lips found his ear. She kissed it. Then sucked. The 'I-am-yours' suction of a woman preparing herself.
"Please," she whispered.
He climbed. Onto the rose bed. The vines and petals shifted — accommodating his weight, the nature magic adjusting. The bed was large enough. Firm enough. The roses — dark red, fragrant — fell from their bodies as they settled. The petals scattered. The scent — floral, sweet, the natural perfume of a thousand roses — filled the air.
