Chapter 9: Caramel Flames and Forbidden Bites

Our immersion in the fair’s fervor was left behind as we roamed the dwindling crowds like a tide, the sloshing clamor moving to its depths as, by nightfall, salt air mingled with pink smoke and distant bonfire crackle pulled us out.

Elena’s arm locked in mine, her wide hip banging and busying my thigh with rhythmic tightness, each ‘wiggle’ a naturally flowing heraldry of the heat that still bled from our Ferris peak imprint, her climax’s afterpulse reverberating through her steps’ tremble.

My cock fidgeting unsteadily in my jeans, thickened by her walls tightening with a tidal tug of my fingers, guilt fizzing with salivation as I stole a glance at her, forties flaunting with yoga yields, her huge breasts pushing against the blue, and nipples poking faintly from the nighttime cool or lingering bliss.

Crowds dwindled, birthing retreat; anonymity fueling folly as we ambled to the lamplight pits, amber currents blazing on the fringes, shadows gravitating like common confidences.

“Something hot to kill the cold,” she said in a haughty throat, leading us to a concession vendor with caramel apples, glossy spheres dripping with swirly syrup that reflected the outbursting effusion I’d experienced in her.

She bought a couple of them, winking with wanton weight, handing me one, her fingers lingering—glutinous, impetuous—salt from the surf mixing in miniature flasks of salivation down our skin.

We chewed together, the chomp rhythm matching the logs beating, caramel snap between us, a sodden filament.

Juice trickled from her chin, and I, mindlessly, came to wipe it, my thumb threading her lip, her tongue flicking out, plunging itself to lick the sweetness.

It was a shock, skin fluttering in echoes, her tongue unspooling my digit for a moment, hot and moist, her eyes locking mine in pitch-black reverence.