Chapter 3: The Mirror’s Temptation

Dr. Thorne Blackwood’s fingers went deeper and deeper into Seraphina’s quivering center, two hefty digits alternating inside her velvet walls, reaching all the way inside her with deliberate, wary insistence that sent electric jolts of forbidden arousal spiking throughout her olive-skinned body’s structure.

The sugared oil containing those subtle warming tonics slicked everything, saturating with oozing, obscene sound the abundance of her own juices filling this fancy, lascivious living room, squelches and slaps chiming like the thumping pulse of her loosened, already wet wants.

Her full, thick thighs grazed the cool leather sofa as they sprawled and stuck a little with her sweat-soaked skin, her pendulous D-cup breasts flat and rubbing, nipples rubbing the surface with each involuntary bend in her back, hardening all the more into aching peaks she couldn’t even ask for.

This heart-shaped, oiled mound was jiggling a little with his relentless steady yet sensual rhythm, her pulled-down pink shorts tangled around her knees were a snarky reminder of fences already blown away by his dominant hand.

The injection’s sting had dulled to a pulsing, activated high, all the nerves turned bright, each one declaring her inner ridges all the more buzzed as his big ol’ fingers dug, flirting with her from top to bottom, coaxing out things languishing behind her doors for years, since those wild, powder-keg moments of her marriage with David that was now an old tune sung in this sudden crest of arousal.

Seraphina’s dark, wild waves of hair cascaded across the cushion, her curtain of curls tousled and unkempt, sculpting her bruised forehead as she counted her breaths.

Her marital life felt far away, a stale order fallen away in the smoke of this imminent electric wonder, guilt smoldering like a dying spark only to be blown into something foul, more sweetly.

Dr. Blackwood’s braced body stalking over her, his tight blue dress shirt encasing the outline of his broad chest and salt-and-pepper hair glistening, his dark, distracted eyes covering up that playboy inclination with only a brittle mask of professionalism, yet the nuance seeped through, his untethered hand trailing his fingers along the vertebrae, feeling clinical, or like a massage, stoking her questions like gasoline to a bonfire.

His smooth-edged black medical bag sitting nearby, a Pandora’s box of instruments, the saline syringe meant for the “injection” already in place, echoed through her mind; the pumping of blood a fresh wave of feeling, a delicious weakness.

“Give me your hips so I can get a better therapeutic access,” he whispered in a deep, hopeful velvet voice that covered her like a blanket, the decadent undertones inflaming her with doubt.

Detached or desire?

His free hand wrapped around her most curvaceous hip, lifting her up, rotating her prone form at just the right angle for her to stare into the full-length mirror at the end of the room.